The Storyteller
by Lizzie Hopscotch
Summary: Bilbo Baggins had many a tale to tell. Too many in fact. This is how the famed storyteller of the Shire gathered his tales, and eventually how he became one himself.
1. Chapter 1

On September 22nd in the year 2890 of the Third Age, Belladonna Took gave a sigh of relief her son _finally_ entered the world. He'd been so stubborn, clinging desperately to what he knew that it had been a long and hard labour on his mother, but now with Bungo smiling down at the new addition Belladonna could admit to herself that it was definitely worth it.

Bag End was filled with the crying of healthy lungs, and the new parents smiled at each other. After years of happy marriage their large home was finally being put to the use for which it was built. As a happy home in which Bungo and Bella could raise their children with a warm hearth and a full pantry. Bella could see it now, Bilbo (for that was definitely his name) chasing after his younger siblings of which hopefully there would be many. He would take care of them, play with them and watch over them. He'd probably make his parents' lives hell too when he reached his tweens, that Took blood demanding to be let out.

Bella laughed at the thought. The neighbours would be scandalised at the sight of a Baggins of Bag End acting as unruly as one of those ruffians from Tuckborough. She couldn't wait, it was sure to be most amusing, for both her _and Bungo_. For no matter what anyone said that Hobbit enjoyed creating a scandal as much as watching one. Why else had he married her?

That was when the pain started.

It was sudden, not at all like the long building ache that came with Bilbo. No, this was quick and sharp and Bella was struck with the wrongness of it. The urge came and she shouted out. Bilbo was quickly passed to his grandfather, Old Gerontius Took having made the journey specially to see his favourite daughter. He watched anxiously as his newest grandson, he had quite a few already, squalled in his arms demanding the comfort of his parents and receiving only the worry of an old Hobbit.

He could not see through Bungo's body as he stood over his panting wife, nor could he hear the quiet words that passed between them. What he could hear, however, was the distinct and very, _very_ loud cry of a newborn.

And it wasn't coming from Bilbo.

Bella and Bungo laughed as the new child was handed to her, Bungo jokingly asking the midwife is there were any other surprises in store and sagging in relief when her reply was in the negative. Gerontius leaned against the doorframe, taking in the sight of the first twins born of Took blood in generations. While multiple births were common in Hobbits, being a ridiculously fertile lot as a rule, the Tooks only saw such a thing rarely. Many blamed the Fae blood that ran in their line, but not to the face of any Took, nor anywhere near their earshot.

Her parents named her Berylla, because when she opened her eyes for the first time they were as green as the hills of the Shire.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of the Wainriders, as it was told to Bilbo. _(With a few, minor embellishments by a well-meaning tale-spinner)

Far to the East there was a Man named Böri, the Wolf, who rode with his brother Yumruk who acted as his Fist. They were skilled with axe and sword, knives and poisons, and from a young age learned the benefit of sticking an arrow in the enemy's eye.

Their true skill however, lay in none of these things.

It lay in their cunning and determination. It was in their ability to break the great horses and bind them to chariots. It was by their words and the strength that lay behind them that they began to grow strong, and men flocked to them and their cause. Gifts were offered. Great chests of gold and adornments of the finest quality make, some bought some stolen but all of great beauty. The greatest of these beauties was the woman Kuzu, laid before them as a Lamb to be devoured until there was nothing left.

Except this Lamb had a spine as strong as the finest Elvish steel, and so when the Wolf snapped his jaws shut and the Fist pushed her down she passed them both with elegance and grace. She rose before them like a tide, and supported them as their wife. For the brothers did nothing separately, and shared all equally.

With the union sanctified and all made true before the gods, the people swelled like an ocean wave and the tide swept out for conquest and revenge.

~{+*+}~

The first sign of Took blood showed in Bilbo. It showed in the sticks in his hair and the mud caking his feet (and often his trousers). He would trundle around the Shire as young faunts are wont to do, and would greet everyone with a wide grin and sparkling eyes. His sister followed quietly, the younger sibling never straying far from her brother. Her words were few, although she could be seen chattering quite excitably with Bilbo, but her smiles constant. And that was good enough for the people of the Shire.

It was Belladonna who noticed first.

She knew her children, knew them better than they knew themselves perhaps and she could see it. She saw how whenever they played a game of tag with the other children, Berylla was never caught. Her feet almost flew through the Shire, dust kicking up wherever she went. She could see it in how her daughter would watch the sky and wonder how far the clouds travelled. Bilbo, her constant companion, couldn't answer but _didn't that one look like Mr Togo Chubb?_

And as they grew Bella could see it in the tales spoken by Bilbo at the dinner table. How the words carried Berylla away to far off places, and how her eyes lingered there before returning to Bag End. No, Belladonna was sure. When the time came, for there was always a time in the life of a Hobbit, it would be Berylla who left the Shire and Bilbo who would stay. Her son, her eldest boy was far too much like her husband for it to be any different. For all his talk of Elves and fireflies, Bilbo was a sapling with roots becoming strong deep within the Shire's soil. Whereas Berylla, Berylla was still a seedling, ready to be taken and planted elsewhere, for her roots to never take root until she was ready to hold onto what she wanted with the tight grip of the Oak.

~{+*+}~

It was their Father who first told them of the rich Gondorian Lords and their fat appetites. He said it made them slow and weak, that one was more likely to roll than run. He would tell them this over supper, tankard lax in his hand as his waxed on drunkenly. He told them that as Easterlings it was in their nature to take from the bounty offered, for wasn't it the Gondorians who drove them away from their homes in the first? It didn't matter particularly to the brothers, all that was lost in a history they didn't care to learn.

What did matter, what always mattered, was the arrow sticking from their Father's throat shot from the bow of some common soldier of Gondor.

It took them years and the marriage to Kuzu before they were ready to take what their Father claimed was theirs. Their army marched and rode, some on horses, some in chariots, all equipped with sword and spear. Armour was made as they travelled, leather taken from obliging farmers, anything to get rid of the grim warriors.

In the first battle they gained a reputation with the Lordlings of Gondor. A reputation for bloodthirsty work, an endless barrage of teeth and claw, ending with a parade of the dead for a blood soaked Lamb. But they stayed safe in their cities, content to send a few soldiers out to meet them, what was a few farms after all?

It was after they didn't stop that they began to know fear, when the sound of feet and drums echoed in their dreams did they start to quake.

And when the monstrous Wolf with his mighty Fist gifted the heart of the King to the peaceful Lamb – that is when they knew terror.

~{+*+}~

For Bilbo, the Shire was a paradise. He discovered new things every day, like the fact that cousin Falco was afraid of worms, or that Holman Gamgee was the best at potatoes. He knew when the Bolgers were having a party (the ale kegs in the market doubled in number) and that his Grandfather knew so many riddles he couldn't always remember the answer.

Sometimes his feet took him further than he wanted, like the time he ventured too near to the Old Forest, and the strange man guided him back. Folk later said he imagined him, and that no one could live in there, but Bilbo wondered if it had been the mysterious Tom Bombabil. Once he decided to go right instead of left from his door and when he stopped walking he thought he could see the land breaking in waves. Berylla giggled at the notion, and they ran back to check mother's old map, to see if they could find the strange bumps that seemed so much bigger than The Hill. As a respectable Hobbit Bilbo would laugh at this, but for a fauntling of all of ten years, it seemed quite feasible that the land should bend in any shape it wanted.

Berylla declared that one day she'd travel there and find out once and for all.

~{+*+}~

After their defeat on the Dagorlad, the Wainriders burned in their hearts. They were pushed back from what was theirs, and their people, their fierce and proud warriors were disheartened. They stood outside their tent, watching them move around camp. Men, women, even children now, so long had they been at war with these rolling lords that families have grown and died on the battle field. Even their Lamb, beautiful Kuzu, was not immune to this, already having burned two babies on the pyres of the dead, while a third now grew within her. She took their hands and held them tight.

"Will you let this stand, my Lords?" she asked them.

"No," vowed Böri.

"We will be strong again," finished Yumruk.

And the three watched as the determination and fierceness that resided in them grew in their people, until it was time to fight once again.

Boys became men on that battlefield of ruin. One after the other they were cut down, spear broken and armour rent in two.

The General Eärnil, not that they knew his name (if they had it would have been cursed in all the tongues they knew), led his army well. He surprised and routed them, dividing their lines and creating chaos.

It was Yumruk who fell first, and bloody necktie from a lucky slash of an errant page who did not live to see victory. Böri saw his brother fall and his movements became frantic, a deadly mesh of anger and desperation. He could see their army failing, bodies of men that had trusted him falling like rice at a wedding.

He didn't see the blow that felled him, only felt the great blow as it shattered his spine.

Kuzu lived on alone, watching Gondor with a bitter hatred. She raised her son well, she taught him his weapons and his histories. But most of all she taught him her hate, until it festered in his line and could pass to all Easterlings, who would look West and wonder when exactly they could take their revenge.

~{+*+}~

It was a bright summer's day when Berylla met her first Elf. Bilbo wasn't there, having decided that cousin Falco was much better company than being with a _girl_. Honestly, such a silly thing to get upset about. It wasn't like being a boy seemed much better. So Berylla found herself wondering the forest just north of Hobbiton. She'd been there many a time before, with and without company, but this time it felt different. There was a whisper in the leaves that she couldn't quite catch, but found herself chasing, until she quite literally fell on top of the Elves.

In all honesty, it wasn't her fault. It was that silly whisper's fault for leading her to that ledge, how was she to know that three Elves were peaceably having lunch below? It wasn't like they'd been there any time _before_. The Elves, for their part, were incredibly gracious to their new guest, quick to offer food and conversation. Which Berylla accepted with all the grace of a Hobbit too old be a fauntling and yet not quite a tween. In other words, not all that well, but the spirit of it was there. It had been a long time since the three had been in the company of one so young, and found themselves charmed by her guiless nature, and quick laughter.

It was only when Berylla realised that the shadows were getting longer did she notice how much time had passed. She shot to her feet like an excitable rabbit, babbling apologies for being so rude but now she was late and going to be in an awful lot of trouble.

"But you will come again, won't you?" she begged.

"We can't, young Berylla," One told her regretfully.

"We are headed to the West, to our home in Valinor, and once there," the second tried to explain.

"We cannot return," the last finished, and to their consternation Berylla's eyes began to fill with tears.

"But _why?_" she demanded, "Why can't you come back?"

"Because that's the way it's meant to be. Come now, Berylla, let us leave with smiles and not tears." They entreated her.

She did her best to give a watery approximation of her smile, but it seemed good enough for the Elves. They walked her to the edge of the forest, where she could see the lights of Hobbiton glinting in the dark.

"Run fast, little one, you don't want to get into trouble."

She nodded in agreement, taking a step forward before turning and throwing herself at them for a hug.

"I won't forget you," she promised.

"Nor we you," echoed the three Elves, who knew the memory of this little child would keep in their hearts all the way to Valinor.

She nodded resolutely and forced her feet to run fast and to not look back. Somewhere between the Green Dragon and home, surrounded by the cheer of her neighbours the sadness brought about by her new friends leaving faded. A wicked smile broke out across her face.

Bilbo was going to be so jealous!


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo was indeed very jealous. It was this that encouraged his own search to find Elves, and it was during this time that he met Gandalf.

Bilbo, when he reaches the age of fifty, scarcely remembers it. Oh yes, he remembers the whizz-poppers and the congenial old man with the fascinating scarf. He remembers his mother's elation at seeing him, and her mild admonishments for bothering him. Most of all he remembers her smile though, which is how he prefers it.

Gandalf, for his part, can recall rather a lot more of the evening.

For example the bright red of the Old Took's jerkin, and the marvellous treats spread out on large tables. In the darker times, if he concentrates hard enough, he can hear their laughter as he sent out marvellous butterflies made of bright sparks. Belladonna's son is was he can see most clearly though, a bright eyed fauntling, younger in mind than his sister, and full of life. He handed the young Hobbit a toy sword, giving him a fierce enemy in Gandalf's scarf. The sword, of course, was taken by Belladonna.

She hugged Gandalf in greeting, knowing him from her wondering years, before scolding them both lightly. For young Hobbits did not play with swords. Nasty Business, swords were. Later, Berylla found the sword and returned it to Bilbo, where he decided to keep it safe under the bed slats where Belladonna was sure not to look.

(It remained there until Thorin found it, having noticed a strange bump in the bedding which seemed out of place with the rest of the put together Guest Room.)

It was a good night for Belladonna, one she treasured for many years. It was a night where all her favourite people were together and happy, surrounded by the laughter inherent in Shire Hobbits. Like bubbles rising and popping with a tingling burst.

For Berylla though it was a night of confirmation. She was sure now, now that she had met two (_two!)_ races of Big Folk that she wanted to meet more. She wanted to cross the border of the shire She'd been to the borders of Bywater, and into the Binobole Wood. She had danced in and around the hay and cows of the Waymeet. But her feet were itching to go further, forbidden by her mother until she was _at least_ 20, and at 13 years old that was ever such a long way away.

She'd complained bitterly about this to Gandalf, who in her opinion told the _best_ stories. Gandalf, in all his grandfatherly wisdom had told her that her mother was correct, there was many dangers out there in the World, and it wouldn't do for such a small fauntling to get trod on.

"In the meantime," he suggested with a twinkle in his eye. "Why don't you see if you can find out the secrets of the Shire?"

Berylla thought about this long and hard (which was perhaps a little more than ten minutes) before declaring that she would do exactly that, and become the best explorer of the Shire ever known! Bungo choked on some Pipeweed nearby, before hefting her up and taking her to bed. Belladonna was doing the same thing to Bilbo and the twins put up a token fuss before succumbing to their parents. It wouldn't do for them to get complacent after all.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of Fréa and his Court of Magicians, as it was told to Bilbo_ (with only a few additions)

The Third King of Rohan reigned for 75 years, earning him the name Aldor the Old. His son, Fréa, was the next in line, already at the age of seventy-five himself. The sons of the new King, Fréawine and Fram sought to help him in his age, for his hands were growing stiff at a rate faster than his father and soon they feared he would be no longer able to hold a sword.

And so they sent for the finest workers of magic known in the land of Rohan. And there were not many. The Rohirrim were, and are, a folk more concerned with the practicalities of everyday then whether or not there was some magic in the air. That is not to say that they did not have their own superstitions, or that they were unlearned. There was many a person known in Rohan for their prowess in the Arts, but for each one there were twenty known for their skill with horses and weapons.

For all they weren't unconcerned with the knowledge to be found in books, they were a suspicious people. A trait born from too many attacks and too many dead. It was this suspicion that made them keen to have a king who could hold a sword, for a sword is what defined the strength of a king. So they encouraged all those they knew with skill of the mind to hurry to Edoras.

~{+*+}~

When Berylla turned fourteen, their parents decided to extend the boundaries of the Twin's wondering. They were now allowed no further than Woodhall, as Bungo had some relatives there who would be quite happy to allow the two to stay a while. Bilbo was delighted at the prospect, and so was Berylla as this was a place entirely new. It did not take long however, before she started looking onwards.

Berylla got her first scar at fifteen years old, when she cut her arm on some wire bordering Farmer Maggot's land. This is, you understand, the elder Farmer Maggot, not the grandfather of the Farmer Maggot always chasing a certain Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck for pilfering his cabbages. This was not a new problem, the tradition of young hobbits making mischief in his fields was an ancient one, ancient in the mind of a hobbit that is.

The Farmer Maggot that Berylla faced was a bit of a rotten soul however.

Not content with simply chasing the young hobbits away, this old one would lay traps at the borders of his crop, much like the wire that poor Berylla so carelessly stepped on. The cut ran diagonally across her feet, not yet as hard as an adult Hobbit's, and pain lanced through it with every step she took. Bilbo, brave sweet Bilbo, came after her when she didn't return. He found her curled up underneath a tree, silently crying into her apron.

"Berylla?" he asked hesitantly, "What's wrong?"

"I-I-I can't _walk_, Bilbo. I cut my foot!" she hiccoughed. She lifted her leg gingerly, exposing her wound to her brother, who was by her side in an instant. He undid his neckerchief and dabbed lightly at her foot, wincing each time she sobbed.

"There now, Berylla, I'm going to wrap it now," he told her gently, whipping out several hankerchiefs from his pocket. Even at such a young age his father had imposed on him the importance of being properly prepared, as one never knew when one would need to blow their nose, or offer a square piece of cloth to a crying girl. Binding the foot of his sister while keeping an eye out for that rotten farmer was not a use Bungo had had in mind. He helped Berylla to stand gingerly, and slowly they made their way to the outer fence.

Quickly though their movements were discovered, and sound of dogs chased them. They could hear the farmer yelling behind them, his voice growing ever louder. Berylla was slowing them down and they both knew it, but Bilbo refused to let go of her arm, dragging her along to the very edge of Farmer Maggot's field.

They tumbled over the side, sliding down the ridge and onto the road leading back to Woodhall, for this had been the first time Berylla had disobeyed Bella's ruling, and set foot outside her limits. Oh how she wished she had listened! Her foot throbbed something awful, and Bilbo's leg was bleeding from that dratted rock. Above them they could hear the dogs and old Maggot's cursing and so they limped off as quickly as they could, which wasn't very quick at all.

~{+*+}~

When confronted with the mass of wise-folk gathered at the steps of Meduseld, Fréawine and Fram began to worry. There were far too many, and most looked like they'd been dragged out by frightened relatives. They decided then that a test was in order.

When this was announced there were a lot of grumbles and some left immediately, but there were those that nodded at the wisdom of such a thing, and so the tests commenced.

They began by asking simple questions. Most were on the history of the country, small things anyone should know, but there were a few that measured a person for themselves and those were the most important. The ones who gave a good showing were permitted to remain no matter their knowledge on history, whilst others deemed unfit were turned aside. These, unsurprisingly, put up a great deal of fuss when this was announced, and it was only one a few heads were bashed together that they acquiesced to the Prince's orders.

They still grumbled though.

The next round of tests were ones of logic. They began with horses, reasoning out the times at which each finished a run. Most passed and a few didn't, but there were also a few that came to conclusions using steps the Princes hadn't even considered, and so they were asked to remain.

The last test was the trickiest of all. They had to tell a story of a feat that they had accomplished as magicians. Some went big, telling outrageous tales of splitting mountains. The Princes chuckled at these, before pointing out the still solid ranges. There was one though, an old man in a drab cloak who told neither tale nor performed a trick, just simply asserted that he was, in fact, a wizard. The crowd laughed, as did Fram, but Fréawine looked on and kept his own counsel.

~{+*+}~

After the debacle at Farmer Maggot's farm, Berylla and Bilbo were not allowed to wander as freely as they had before. It was now, Bella decided, that they should all go to Tuckburough to stay in the smial of the Old Took. There was now no more journeys alone walking along the Bywater, but they were now accompanied by many of their cousins, nieces and nephews. Bilbo thrived under such care, taking to the rambunctious nature of Tuckburough with ease. For Berylla it was a little more difficult, so used to just having Bilbo with her on her trips. Soon though she too relaxed, and the two became famous for outlandish tales told to the young ones.

By the time they were seventeen, and out-growing the gangly portion of teen-hood – for even the smallest of folk have that awkward phase I'm afraid – Berylla and Bilbo had travelled the length and bredth of the Shire. The first time they accomplished the journey there was a huge celebration in Bag End, as Belladonna believed there was nothing better than coming home to a good amount of pie and cake. All their favourites were there, peach pie for Berylla, and strawberry shortcake for Bilbo.

It was not long before they set out again.

This time though, they had an idea. They took with them a small notebook, in which Bilbo scribbled all manner of things. Berylla, having no talent for words, was content to listen beside her brother. When they returned to Bag End, they had many more notebooks than they started with, and they sat down to compile their Notes on the Shire.

In his later years Bilbo would loudly declare that it was _not fit for reading __**at all**_, and would persistently grab the original copy away from his irksome sibling. It had been re-written as Bilbo grew older, and included a great many more things of importance. Originally however they were quite proud of their accomplishment, and presented it to Belladonna on their next birthday. Within it were stories they had been told, illustrations of good and bad mushrooms, as well as a good collection of riddles. Perhaps the best part of the book though was the very last section, which Berylla and Bilbo had managed to write with the help of some passing Elves. It consisted of all the different alphabets they knew of, but not Khuzdul or their own as such things were rarely written down just in case. Belladonna was delighted with it, as all mothers are with their children, and cherished it always. Bungo puffed up at the idea of his children writing books, as it was a most respectable profession and it could only be the Baggins in them shining through.

~{+*+}~

After the last round of tests it was time for the remaining three men to be escorted into Meduseld. The first Man to enter the hall of the King was named Gléomer, and was known in his village in East Emnet for his tricks and talent with words. He took the hands of the king within his own, and prescribed the King with several stretching exercises to loosen his hands, followed by a warm bath infused with pain relieving herbs.

The second Man was from the Westfold, and his name was Bregdan, so-called for his many braids in his blonde hair. He ran his hands over the creaking hand joints of the king and suggested encasing the hand in warm wax, insisting the heat will aid in movement.

The Princes looked on warily. This was not what they had hoped for, as these were remedies their own physicians had tried and failed. They faced the old man, and waited for him to approach.

He shuffled slowly towards the dias, and made no attempt to hold the King's hands. He stated his name was Léofara, but gave no province for his home.

"You are old, King Fréa," he said gravely, "And nothing can halt the passage of time."

The King smiled and raised his hands, even though to do so caused nothing but pain. "Time has left me without the use of my hands, and without them I cannot rule."

"But there are others who _do_ have hands," Léofara said quietly.

The King's face twisted in anger.

"You dare to suggest I leave the throne?"

Léofara drew himself up to his full height, travel stained cloak falling to reveal robes of the deepest blue beneath.

"That is not what I am saying if you would but _listen_," insisted the Blue Wizard, who lent power to his words. "Long did you study at the arm of your father Aldor, and it has created a King of great Wisdom within you. What I suggest is that allow your son, Fréawine to study at yours. _He _could be your sword arm, and Rohan would remain protected."

The Princes shared a look, afraid the King would suspect some conspiracy, but Fréa laughed.

"I have heard of the wisdom of Wizards, and had never expected to find it within my lifetime." He announced finally. "Fréawine, my son, attend to me."

The Prince approached warily. "Yes, Father?"

"Let it be known that when a King of Rohan reaches the age of seventy, he is to lay down his sword, and pass it to his Heir." At this he clasped his son's hands around the hilt of Déorwine. "And his Heir shall tarry at the side of his King, and learn the wisdom of his long years."

This, it is told, is how the law came to be in Rohan, and the Blue Wizards was never seen in those lands again.

~{+*+}~

At the age of twenty years old, the twins spent the summer following Holman Gamgee around. He was, after all, the best gardener in the Shire and knew everything there was to know about plants. Holman, for his part, was very confused when he woke up one morning to find two eager helpers on his doorstep. He quickly put them to work however, and to his surprise had to fix very little of their mistakes. Bilbo and Berylla never told him until much later that they had enlisted Hamfast to teach them the basics, lest Holman throw them out the garden.

Before the summer ended, Belladonna and Bungo were presented with a new tome to peruse. This one was filled with drawings, some a little shakier than others (Berylla), and the names and uses for all sorts of plants. It was a book of the most useful sort, and it listed things from tomatoes to asphodel. There were even pressings of leaves at the back, with the name of each tree written neatly nearby. The leaves were Bilbo's idea, and a cunning one if he did say so himself. His sister tended to get bored when it came to writing their findings, so he had sent her to gather as many different leaves as she could find. Berylla, being a good sort, never told her brother that he was utterly transparent in his plot.

Their twenty-first birthday came and went with much celebration, drawings and riddles being the main gifts to the party-goers. It was a party to be treasured deeply by Bilbo and Berylla, because after that winter came. And the smiles stopped.

* * *

><p><strong>Let me know what you think!<strong>

**Much Hugs**

**Lizzie Hopscotch**


	3. Chapter 3

When spring came in the year 2912 it was with little fanfare and much grieving. Bilbo and Berylla, having lived alone in Bag End for the last of the Winter, were wary about facing the outside world. Berylla would ensconce herself in the smallest of places and not come out without much beseeching from her brother. Their mother's friend Gandalf stayed with them for a while, healing Berylla's wounds until they were faint scars, but soon he had to leave for business in Tharbad. Bilbo and Berylla hardly noticed his absence until the food in the pantry had run down and the two were forced to leave the Smial.

It was Bilbo who left first. He walked carefully down Bagshot Row, keeping his eyes firmly averted from the spot his mother and father were killed and eaten. His neighbours spotted the young hobbit and approached him immediately, offering sincere condolences and inquiries to his and his sister's health. It took him a long time to return from the market in the middle of Hobbiton. When he eventually returned to Bag End, laden down with a number of pies, it was to an exceedingly quiet hole. Placing his burdens in the pantry, he began to search each room for Berylla.

He found her curled in the closet of his parents' room. Her eyes were wide open and blank, knees tucked close and held with a white knuckled grip. He climbed in with her and held her hand, anchoring her to the here and now, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the ice in her memories. She could no longer bear the thought of going outside where so much danger lurked, and the fear quashed any desire to cross the borders surrounding the Shire.

It wasn't until their guardians Hildibrand and Donnamira Took, both siblings of Belladonna, came to Bag End that Berylla was forced to leave the safety of their home. As the Baggins twins were not yet of age it had been decided by their Grandfather that their aunt and uncle (both unmarried) would take care of them for the time being. As the two had been favourites of the twins in their visits to Tuckborough, the Thain didn't think there'd be a problem. He was wrong.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of the chief of the Dúnedain, Aragost and the maiden Ioreth as it was told to Bilbo_. (With merely a few tweaks of artistic license.)

Aragost became the Chief of the Dúnedain in the year 2523 at the age of 92. Unlike the Men of Rohan, the Dúnedain were descendants of the people of Númenor and were blessed with long life. As chief, especially in the times of peace, Aragost searched for one whom he could call his wife. He travelled a great deal through the realms of Arnor and Gondor. He fought the Enemy in the new realm of Rohan and was victorious. He was known as a hero before he returned to the North.

However, it was the return journey that held greatest importance for him. He was struck with the fancy to visit his ancestral home, and so instead of returning to the Angle he turned north, and to the forgotten ruins of Fornost. As his horse walked through deadened streets he heard the sound of the purest song. Halting his horse he twisted in the saddle, hoping to spot the singer. As he searched however the music stopped and although he lingered for a while he saw no one. Eventually he told himself he was simply exhausted and imagined the song, and left the crumbling city behind.

Above him in a forgotten watchtower, the maiden Ioreth sat by her window and watched the crownless king leave.

~{+*+}~

Donnamira Took, it has been widely acknowledged, was a force to be reckoned with. Once she set her mind on a project she became absolutely focused upon it. Her current project: convincing Berylla to leave Bag End. She bustled about cleaning the place, putting broom and polish in her niece's hands when she appeared to be drawn back into painful memories. Donnamira was adamant that the only cure for the grief that followed the Winter was hard work. As such she had sent Bilbo off with her brother to the fields to work the earth, and Berylla was going to continue her studies in house and home. As they worked, she kept up a steady stream of comments. Some were ignored, others treated with sharp retorts.

"You don't want to disappoint your namesake, do you? Just think of what she would say!"

"My namesake was a rock, not Balbo's wife."

A few days later, when Berylla had refused to accompany her to market.

"And what am I to tell people when they ask after you? You haven't been seen in months!"

"Tell them I'm following their example in remaining within the safety of my home."

No one had any response to that. It had become the joint shame of all hobbits that while Bungo, Belladonna, and young Berylla had been attacked by wolves, those nearby had hidden and waited until the terrible sounds sank back into silence. It had only been luck that Berylla had survived: Gandalf and the Rangers had come thundering into Hobbiton during the attack and managed to save the tween. The hobbits of Bag Shot Row did not speak of their inaction, especially since they had only been out trying to help others, so great was their shame. Not even once did anyone mention it, until one day the hobbits woke and the shame was a little less, and eventually the moments where they could have helped were forgotten. By the time Bilbo was twenty three the hobbits of Hobbiton all agreed that Bungo and Bella were terribly brave hobbits, and that their deaths were a great and unavoidable tragedy.

Berylla never forgot, and the rage of it burned inside her. It warred with her fear of setting foot out of the Smial. Even though the springtime blooms were out in full force she was convinced hungry wolves were waiting to consume her as she stepped over the threshold. As with most things, it was Bilbo who helped her move outside. Bilbo, with his quiet fussing that reminded her of Bungo, who managed to convince her to walk to the back door of the hole and stand at the exit. Berylla stood on the threshold and watched him move around her. Even when she wasn't stood at the backdoor she watched him pick up various knick-knacks spread throughout the house and pocket them. Later they would appear on the mantelpiece, or placed carefully in cases. Belladonna's first attempt at crochet was placed under the fruit bowl in the kitchen, and Bungo's pipe was put carefully above the fire. They never spoke of their shared grief during the times she stood by the open door but when the hole was quiet, but for Hildibrand's snoring, the two would huddle together in either's bed and whisper little stories to each other in an attempt to chase it away.

While Berylla struggled to face the outside world, Bilbo, for all his confidence before, became quieter and less inclined to smiles. For him, Aunt Donnamira's prescription of hard work was a lifeline, as when he was focusing on seedlings he wasn't thinking of Bungo and Bella and his broken sister. He had yet to step into his father's study, and hadn't dared to touch a book in months. He focused only on the fields, the small things of his parents, and waiting for the day Berylla finally made it outside.

~{+*+}~

In the months that followed Aragost's return to the Northern Tribes his thoughts turned often towards Fornost and the mysterious song he had heard there. One day, tired of turning the events over and over again in his mind, he saddled his horse and made for the city. When he got there he was greeted only by silence and the sadness which runs inherent in forgotten places.

Ioreth brushed brushed her hair slowly, making the activity last as long as possible. It ended quickly though and she sighed in boredom. It had been many a year since she had been locked in here by her mad fiancé, who only appeared once a week to give her supplies. She had no idea what he had told her parents about her disappearance and she held out hope that one day she might be free of the stone prison. She watched the birds fly through the stone buildings as she sat huffing at the window, absently tracing patterns on the ledge, when the unmistakable sound of a horse echoed through the streets. She leaned out slightly, letting the blonde curtain of her hair fan out against the stone. It was the man from before, she realised, recognising the colours he wore and the markings of his horse. He appeared to be waiting for something, and so Ioreth scanned the landscape curiously, but nothing was approaching nor did anything seem amiss below.

Bored, she began to sing quietly to herself, the Fall of Gil-Galad one of the few songs she remembered in full. Immediately the Man's head snapped to attention and she fell silent, curious at what held his focus. At the silence, Aragost slumped in his saddle. He was sure he had heard it, even recognised the tune. Thinking quickly he decided to sing in response, hoping he had guessed the quiet song correctly.

_His sword was long, his lance was keen._

_His shining helm afar was seen;_

_The countless stars of heaven's field_

_Were mirrored in his silver shield._

Ioreth couldn't help her gasp as the words reached her. It was her! She was why he was here! Heart pounding with joy she joined him for the next verse, praying that this time he might spot her.

_But long ago he rode away,_

_And where he dwelleth none can say;_

_For into darkness fell his star_

_In Mordor where the shadows are._

Aragost scanned the land relentlessly as the verse finished but, like before, he could spot no one, just a pale yellow flag hanging from a watchtower. A heavy sigh escaped his chest. Downtrodden, he turned his horse.

"I must truly be going mad," he muttered to himself. He wasn't exhausted this time, and yet he'd heard the woman singing clear as daylight.

"No!" A voice called out desperately. "Please don't go!"

Aragost drew his sword at the cry, wheeling his horse around with his knees.

"Who speaks? Show yourself!" He demanded.

"I'm up here," came the reply, "In the watchtower."

Aragost frowned in confusion as what he thought was a yellow rag moved, and what was unmistakeably an arm waved down at him.

~{+*+}~

By summertime Berylla was able to walk up and down Bagshot Row without feeling the need to bolt inside. She smiled at the progress she made, and felt a little of her old self returning. It was in the nature of the Shire to help things grow stronger, and although the pain and grief of the Fell Winter remained, the ever-present sunshine helped to chase away lingering nightmares. She felt old longings stirring, a silent wish to see beyond the borders, but they were tempered by a fear she had yet to shake.

Bilbo was continuing quietly, enjoying the peace of the garden and a pipe with Uncle Hildibrand. He wasn't quite his old self yet, but Berylla thought that neither of them ever would be again. They passed like that for two years, slowly healing and putting themselves back together, although a few pieces were bent and little out of place.

It was as things were getting better that the scruffy looking Ranger arrived. He greeted Aunt Donnamira kindly, inquired as to where he might find Bag End and appeared very relieved when informed he was at the right place. The offer of tea was given and then declined as he had to return to Bree quickly. He left behind a carefully wrapped square package with a letter placed ever so neatly on the kitchen table. Bilbo and Berylla sat silently side by side in front of it.

"Do we open it?" Bilbo asked eventually, eyeing the letter warily. The cursive script reading their mother's name was stark against the parchment.

"We should find out who it's from," Berylla replied, "and why they sent it." After all, didn't everyone already _know_? Bilbo nodded and reached for the letter shakily. The sound of the envelope tearing filled the silence, and Berylla rubbed her fingers together through the wrapping of the package. Bilbo started in surprise next to her.

"What? What is it?"

"It's in _Elvish._"

"Really? Can you read it?" Bilbo was always more proficient in reading different languages. Their mother thought that learning Elvish would be useful, especially as she had made many friends in Rivendell on her travels. After their deaths he had kept at it, becoming a semi-proficient translator. He gave Berylla an unimpressed look and she half-smiled in return.

"I think…I think it's from her friends in Rivendell," Bilbo said haltingly. "There's something about it being a birthday gift, and a hope for a visit? There's some enquiries about us, even, she must have been writing to them. Urm…and then there's an anecdote? _My boys, Elladan and Elrohir, were also troublesome at that age, perhaps that is the nature of twins_. We weren't troublesome!"

"We were, Bilbo, we were absolutely troublesome," Berylla teased lightly, "in fact you were the most troublesome of all."

"And just for that, dear sister, I won't tell you who it's from."

"Awwwwww, Bilbo!" She pouted. "I could just read it myself you know." She made a grab for the letter, but Bilbo held it just out of reach.

Bilbo gave her a level look followed by a raised eyebrow. "Alright, so I couldn't. Tell me? Please?"

"_Lord Elrond_."

"Lord? Mum was friends with an Elvish _Lord?_"

Bilbo nodded, a smile creeping onto his face. It was nice, he thought, to be able to talk about their parents again without pain ripping through his chest.

"So, what do you think is in there?"

Bilbo squared his shoulders. "Only one way to find out."

Tearing away the wrapping he found a single sheet of parchment, the same kind as the letter, as well as two books.

"_To continue the studies of your children._" Bilbo read, turning his attention to the books.

"They're in Westron," said Berylla as she opened the top one. "It's a grammar book for Sindarin."

"And this one is a dictionary," said Bilbo. "Both are more detailed than the ones in Father's study."

"Definitely," Berylla agreed. "This one's even got a section on Quenya."

"Really? Let's see."

Bilbo poured eagerly over the books, his quick eyes drinking in the new information. Berylla watched him with a smile, even as a pit began to form in her stomach.

"Bilbo… I don't think they know," she said slowly, testing the words on her tongue.

"Who knows what?" He blinked owlishly.

"I mean her friends. The Elves. I don't think they know she's… dead." She choked on the last word. Bilbo looked at the book, unsure of what to do.

"Should we write and tell them?" he suggested.

Berylla didn't answer. An idea was beginning to take root inside her, an idea that once upon a time she would have grasped at with both hands. Now she examined it carefully, patting the earth around it like she would with a new seedling.

"What if," she said carefully, "we just…_told _them?"

~{+*+}~

Aragost approached the watchtower carefully, blinking several times at the odd sight before him. There was indeed someone singing in the ruins of Fornost, and they weren't as imaginary as he feared. His confusion lay, however, in why a young woman was in the watchtower in the first place. And why she didn't just leave it.

"My lady," he began. "Who are you and why are you in there? Come down and speak with me."

Ioreth took in the stranger as he approached. He was handsome, she had to admit, and he had an air of kindness about him.

"My name is Ioreth, my Lord, and I am trapped here."

"Trapped? How?"

"The door is blocked and sealed," she explained. "I am delivered food by pulling up a basket with a rope." Her arms had grown quite strong at this point. "Who are you?"

"I am called Aragost," came the reply. "If you have rope, why can you not lower yourself down?"

Here she blushed at her own weakness, not wanting to reveal such a thing to the man below.

"I am afraid," she admitted. "If I leave here then he will find me, and I have no skill at surviving alone. I don't…" she choked on the words, unable to say them, but he knew. Aragost saw her fear and spoke it for her.

"You do not want to die cold and afraid."

She shook her head sadly.

Aragost's gaze hardened, disliking seeing such an expression on a face built for joyful smiles.

"Come down, Lady Ioreth," he said calmly. "And I will see you home."

"Truly?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes, you have my word that your captor will not set hands on you again."

A bright smile burst across her lips like sunlight shines through the treetops. Aragost felt a little of the loneliness that plagued him vanish.

~{+*+}~

When Berylla first left the Shire she was 23 years old. Her aunt, her uncle, and her beloved brother Bilbo were all stringently opposed to the plan. A letter was enough, they said, there was no need to leave the Shire at all. Berylla simply shook her head and tried to explain as best she could.

"I have to leave, Bilbo," she said a few days before she left, "if I stay here... I never will. I don't want to be afraid of the outside world anymore."

"But it's so soon!" he protested. "Surely waiting another year won't hurt? They're Elves. They don't notice the passing of time for the Small Folk."

"Well, that's a terrible thing to say! If it's true then someone should remind them," she added, gratified to see Bilbo smile at the thought of little Berylla scolding beings twice her size.

"If I don't leave now," she continued quietly, "I'll always be afraid."

Bilbo nodded. Although he didn't understand it himself, he knew that his sister took after Belladonna more than he did. He also knew that his sister was unhappy staying in Bag End, surrounded by the mementos of their parents which brought him such comfort.

"Alright," he agreed finally. He slapped his thighs and stood up, plastering a smile across his face. "Then let's get you ready."

They spent the next few days scurrying through the hole, unearthing things Belladonna used in her travels, trying to think what Berylla would need.

"A map, obviously," said Bilbo, tucking one into a pack, "and you'll need a tinder-box, a first aid kit, clothes obviously," his voice softened to a mumble as he started to converse with himself instead of Berylla.

"How do you know so much?" Berylla teased, enjoying making her brother squirm.

"I- I _read,_ thank you!" he squeaked.

Berylla laughed and caught his hand. "Thank you."

He nodded and smiled, thumbing his braces in a manner reminiscent of Bungo.

"Rope," she said decisively, "rope, money, and a knife."

"Yes," Bilbo agreed, "and then it's simply the food to sort."

"I can do this," Berylla said to reassure herself.

"Yes, you can."

The two smiled at each other before going back to planning Berylla's trip.

Two days after this conversation Berylla was stood outside of Bag End with a pack strapped to her back. Her pack was filled with all sorts of useful things: money, rope, food, clothes, tinderbox, and a map. She had it all set and sorted. She wore her lightest dress, bright yellow with paler yellow hatching. She cut a sunflower bloom from the garden on an impulse and tucked it into her dark, curly hair. The books sat at the bottom of her bag. After a talk with Bilbo they had decided to return the books to the Elves as the intended recipient couldn't receive them. This, though, had not stopped Bilbo from taking frantic notes from pertinent sections before they were packed away.

Berylla was ready to leave the Shire. She knew that as soon as she started walking she wouldn't stop until she made it to Rivendell, it was just that first step that was causing her trouble.

"I can do this," she said to herself, taking her brother's words to heart. It was a bright and calm spring morning. It would be just like when she was younger and she and Bilbo would tear through the Shire without a thought. "I can do this," she repeated softly.

"You can," Bilbo insisted behind her, "all you have to do is follow the Great East Road."

"And that's it."

"That's it."

She faced her brother and took his hands, making her case to him one more time: "Come with me?"

"If I do, who will keep those dreadful Sackville-Bagginses out?" Bilbo chuckled. "No, my place is here."

"Please?" she begged again.

"No, you are simply stalling, sister-mine." Bilbo admonished her, and then he pulled her close to embrace her.

"_May Yvanna, Vána, and Oromë keep you safe,_" he whispered in Hobbitish.

"_And may your garden bloom ever brighter, darling brother_."

"Goodbye, Berylla," Bilbo said sadly.

"I will come back," she promised, and turned to take the first step.

~{+*+}~

Ioreth rode with Aragost for five days until they reached the home of the Dúnedain. In that time she and Aragost grew closer and closer as he taught her the skills she would need to survive alone. Ioreth, much to her surprise, found herself learning quickly. She even enjoyed the lessons as they gave her a sense of independence she had never before experienced. Their journey passed quickly and all too soon they found themselves at the Angle and the largest of the Dúnedain camps.

The men and women under Aragost's charge approached him with smiles that fell into expressions of wary distrust when they caught sight of Ioreth. They had heard of his wanderings through Fornost and were afraid that Ioreth was an enchantment set by the Witch-King himself, put there to entrap their line and destroy them.

"Aragost!" a large man greeted him exuberantly, slapping his back in glee. His name was Ohtar and he was a long-time friend to Aragost. It was to him that Aragost confessed he had heard singing in the ruins of Fornost. "You had a good trip, then?"

"Yes, my friend. I met the Lady Ioreth whilst there, trapped within the tallest watchtower," Aragost quickly explained, as he had seen the wariness and wished to dispel it as early as possible. The surrounding people exchanged glances, turning to examine the newcomer more thoroughly. Ioreth looked down at her toes, not wanting to see them pass judgement on her. She was a mess, she knew it. Her skirt was stained something terrible, the laces of her bodice were loose and worst of all her hair had become utterly unmanageable.

"The tallest watchtower? How on earth did you get there?" they asked her. Aragost, too, was curious to hear the answer. He had yet to ask Ioreth for her story, despite his longing to know her better.

"I'm afraid I don't know," Ioreth replied. "I was knocked unconscious, and when I awoke I was imprisoned. The doors were locked and there was no way to open them from within. The only exit was the window."

"Do you at least know who put you there?" Ohtar said.

Ioreth hesitated, not wanting them to think badly of her, but decided that the truth was the best path to take.

"The man I was betrothed to by my father."

~{+*+}~

It took Berylla two days to reach the town of Bree. Her first night alone she spent within Brandy Hall who were used to putting up travellers for the night. It took her a bit of the way off the East Road, but she was confident she could make up for lost time. So far the journey had been very pleasant, although a few hobbits had startled to see her walk brazenly away from the safety of the Shire. They would, no doubt, carry their mutterings and discontent to her brother. Bilbo, she was sure, would greet them with a smile and some cake, before dismissing the words out of hand. As she lay in bed at Brandy Hall her thoughts kept returning to her brother. Guilt gnawed at her for leaving, for even _suggesting_ such a thing, and as such her dreams were filled with disquiet.

In the daylight hours that feeling of unease vanished, and her feet merrily guided her along the path. She was lucky, she thought, to have found a group of Hobbits also travelling to Bree with a cart who did not mind giving her a ride. The hobbits of Buckland often traded with the Big and Small Folk of Bree, and so they were filled with wise words to pass on to a fellow traveller. They told her that the only inn to stay in was the Prancing Pony, and although folk may seem rough there, the landlord Butterbur would take care of her. Berylla listened attentively, determined not to get swept away in the unfamiliar town.

Once they arrived in Bree the hobbits parted ways, the majority of them heading to the markets, but one, Hamson Hayward, offered to accompany her to the inn. Grateful for the company and the help, Berylla accepted. All too soon he left her at the door of the Prancing Pony, but not before extracting a promise from her to return to Buckland on her way home. Squaring her shoulders and neatening her bright yellow skirt, she strode into the inn.

The first thing that struck her was how _loud _it was. Louder than the Green Dragon, even! Rough-looking men sat together, smoking and drinking, and hobbits laughed raucously with them. She approached the bar cautiously, well aware both that the Big Folk rarely looked down and that she had no desire to be stepped on.

"Excuse me?" she asked, hesitantly, sure that no-one would hear her over the din. She was proved wrong when a heavily moustachioed face poked its head over the top of the bar.

"Good day to you, little Mistress!" he greeted her jovially. "What brings you to Bree?"

"It is indeed a wonderful day!" Berylla agreed. "I'm passing through Bree, and I was wondering if I could stay here for the night. My name is Berylla Baggins."

"Why of course! We've got some nice hobbit-sized rooms available. Would you be wanting some lunch right now?"

"No thank you, I've already eaten. But do you know where I might stock up on some supplies?"

"Absolutely. Tell you what, I'll just grab old Bob, and he can take you to the markets. How about that?"

"Oh that would be fantastic!" _What luck!_ Berylla thought, _I had no idea these Big Folk could be so kind._ Berylla was relieved to discover that the tales she'd heard growing up, of the selfishness of Men, were not true. Bob, as it turned out, was both a hobbit and not too pleased with his new assignment. Nonetheless Berylla attempted to keep up a semblance of conversation. Bob trudged along beside the chattering chit, irritated at being given the task of accompanying a Shire simpleton. It was well known in Bree that the hobbits that lived in the town were far more civilised and educated than their bumbling Shire cousins. Bob resolved to reach the market as quickly as possible and then leave the foolish girl there.

Berylla was thrilled to see the markets of Bree. They were far larger than the ones in Hobbiton, and there were things she had never seen before, not even in the down of Michel Delving. The streets were filled with bustling people. Women with large skirts sold bread and pastries as they walked, men with thunderous voices competed with each other, each trying to grasp the attention of passers-by. There was one stall filled with colourful fabrics and another that sold wooden carvings. A dwarf sat outside that one, slowly whittling away at a block in his hands. She was so entranced by all the new sights that Berylla never noticed Bob slip away, nor the Man about to careen into her. He knocked her to the ground with a nary an apology, and Berylla dragged herself up slowly. Looking around for Bob, she finally noticed his absence. She felt a small twinge of hurt at that, before resolving that someone who didn't care about her so blatantly wasn't worth that much thought. She dusted down her skirt, and was dismayed to find her hands were cut and leaving specks of blood on the bright fabric.

"Oh and it's been such a good day too!" she complained. Huffing at her misfortune she continued on deeper into the market, remembering her mother's words about such happenings.

"A small scrape like this is nothing," Belladonna used to say. "It's merely a small dip in the adventure, an unpleasantness easily forgotten."

Nodding firmly, Berylla allowed the busy markets to swallow her.

~{+*+}~

"I come from a small village in Bree-Land. My father is a merchant there, a seller of the finest pastries in the markets. My three sisters already have husbands and childrens, and I was the last to stay in his household. He was approached several times for my hand by men desperate to apprentice under him, but it was Sidney Thistlewool who finally convinced him. He came to us as a young man down on his luck, kind and willing to learn. I will confess to having been charmed by him and his gentle manners, but then so were we all.

"My father quickly agreed to a marriage between us, especially when he saw that we were becoming good friends. I was his last daughter, you see, and he was determined to make me a happy match. After the announcement was made, Sidney began to grow more covetous of me. He would ask, kindly at first, that I let him know where I'm going. I thought it was simply worry for me, but I slowly became aware that he was watching at all times. He would quiz me on my actions, particularly if I conversed with other men – even my own family!

"He was spiralling in his jealousy, no matter how irrational it appeared. Then, he began to vanish for days, and when he returned he was far more jovial. It was as though the old Sidney had returned to us. My father alone was suspicious, but I think he thought Sidney was being unfaithful to his pledge, and not the wickedness that was truly afoot. Eventually, however, his behaviour took a darker turn, and I found myself spirited away in the middle of the night. When I awoke I was in the watchtower. It was clear that the room had been prepared, and it became clear where Sidney had been vanishing too. On the one hand I felt satisfaction that he had not been disloyal, and on the other dismayed to find myself imprisoned.

"He would come to visit me once every few days. He told me that my family was fine, and assured of my safety. I am unsure what he told them but it quickly became clear that no one was looking. After one such visit I refused to talk to him. He would bring me food, and then shout at me for my silence which became my only defence against him. He never laid a hand on me, besides that night when he took me to Fornost, but his anger was a terrible thing to behold. After his anger was spent he would bring me presents in attempts to win my forgiveness. It was then that I broke and told him the only way to have that would be to return me home. He snarled and left at that, and did not come back for several days afterwards.

"It was on that day that something new arrived in Fornost, for I had taken to watching the world pass from the high window. As I was singing to myself the sound of hoof beats echoed through the streets. I stopped singing and tried to spot the rider, but the hoof beats faded away. I thought the rider would not return, but he did, and now I am here."

Ioreth fell silent after her tale was done, as did the people around her. Aragost felt his hands twitching with the urge to take her in his arms.

"And we're glad to have you," he assured her.

"Aye!" Ohtar agreed. "And we should welcome you properly, with beer and song!"

~{+*+}~

Berylla returned to the Prancing Pony in the evening laden down with supplies. Butterbur greeted her with questions about her afternoon and guided her to her room. She didn't mention Bob and his abandonment, content to relay all the fantastic things she'd seen already. Once inside her room she ferreted out a piece of parchment from her bag, as well as quill and ink, ready to pen a letter to her brother. She may have only been gone two days, but she knew he would worry and hopefully this would help. In it she related the market at Bree, the antics of their distant cousins at Brandy Hall, and a story she'd heard from the dwarven woodworker, about a strange monster who lived in mines. He'd laughed at her wide-eyed expression after the tale was done, telling her that it was simply a children's story and that there was no such thing. Berylla had laughed with him, although she had the niggling feeling that the story would return to her in the dark watches of the night.

Once the letter was sealed and the address written she took it down to the main room with her, intent on asking Butterbur how best to get the letter to the Shire. She was quickly informed that the best way would be to ask one of the Rangers as they had been known to travel that way frequently.

"Strange folk, those Rangers," Butterbur said quietly, "most round here don't trust them."

Berylla nodded and thanked him for the advice, but she knew the Rangers could be trusted. They'd helped the Shire during the Fell Winter, after all, and she often overheard Bounders talking about the Rangers that helped protect the borders of the Shire.

"Do you know where I may find one?" she asked politely, to which Butterbur gestured over to a table in the back where a scruffy and travel-worn man sat.

"There's one of them. Folks round here call him Piper because he's always smoking."

"Perhaps he's spent time around hobbits then," Berylla suggested quietly, thinking of the widespread habit in the Shire. Butterbur chuckled lightly before going back to washing the dishes. Steeling herself, she walked towards the Ranger.

"Excuse me, Master Piper? Would you be able to help me?" she enquired hesitantly.

"I've met hobbits before." He replied.

"Excuse me?"

"Hobbits. I've met them before, and they do indeed have a great love of pipeweed."

Berylla blushed to think that somehow he'd heard her from where he was sitting. Or maybe he could read lips? His eyes crinkled in amusement at her obvious embarrassment.

"No harm, little Mistress. Please, sit. What's wrong?"

Relieved, Berylla accepted the invitation.

"I'm trying to find a Ranger heading in the direction of the Shire. I'm hoping they would be able to deliver a letter for me. I'll pay, of course," she added hastily, not wanting him to think she was looking for charity.

"Letter for a jilted lover?" the ranger asked.

"My brother," Berylla replied frostily, not seeing the need for such rudeness.

"Apologies," he inclined his head. "I can arrange for the letter to be delivered, no worries." He took the letter from her and pocketed it. "Why do you not deliver the letter yourself?"

"I'm headed in the opposite direction," Berylla confessed, "but my brother worries, so I'm hoping this will help."

"You're headed East?" The Ranger chuckled. "Are you sure I cannot simply escort you back to the Shire? You hardly look full grown!"

At this Berylla bristled. She was well aware she had a youthful face but she hardly saw why it would be any of this man's business.

"I'm fully capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much." She stood and gave the Ranger the frostiest stare she could. "I'm grateful for your help with the letter, here is your payment." She put a few gold coins on the table. "Good evening."

She huffed and left the chuckling man behind her, having had quite enough of such rudeness.

She decided instead to go to bed. Despite previous misgivings she slept quite soundly, and awoke a few hours after dawn. She dressed in her second outfit, as her yellow skirt still had stains from her fall the day before. This dress was green and blue with a blended pattern and a matching collar over the bodice. A hurried breakfast and a friendly goodbye to Butterbur she was ready to leave the Prancing Pony and head out into the Wild. She hoped she had brought with her enough supplies, but was fairly certain that she would have to ration it out. She giggled at what the neighbours would think if they heard she had only eaten three meals a day, instead of the customary seven. Her stomach rebelled at the thought of such a food but Berylla resolved to just make the best of it.

"You can't be heading out looking like that, surely," a rude voice interrupted her pleasant musings. It was the Ranger from the night before lounging against the inn wall.

"So what if I am?" she challenged him. "What business is it of yours?"

"It's my business because I would hate to stumble across your remains in the Wild. I don't think that would be the news you'd want travelling back to your brother."

Berylla blanched at the thought.

"I still don't see why you're interested. I don't even know your name!"

"Nor I yours, Mistress. But in the interest of fairness, and because I've been a bit rude to you ("A bit!") my name is Arathorn, son of Arador."

"Berylla Baggins," she replied, "and if not these, what do you suggest?"

He is rude, she told herself, but he knows more about travelling than I do. Just because he has rough manners doesn't mean I shouldn't listen to him.

"Well, for starters you need clothes that blend in better. Ones made of stronger fabric, too." He pushed himself off the wall and guided her through the streets and towards the markets. "We'll find something suitable here. You can trade in your yellow one for it, and make room in your pack for more supplies."

Seeing the wisdom in such a thing, Berylla acquiesced, although she was wary about what Arathorn could potentially choose for her. In the end she needn't have worried. The shopkeeper was thrilled at the patterning of her yellow dress, saying it was the perfect material for another customer's quilt. As a result, Berylla quickly became outfitted with a light dress. No patterns, which were custom with hobbits, just simple block colours. The sleeves and outer skirt were brown, while the inner skirt was green. The bodice was fashioned in a similar style, with only the middle piece being green while the sides joined with the sleeves in being brown. A set of brown buttons ran down the middle of the bodice. A thick collar of the same green was added, as well as a brown cloak, as Arathorn said it could get cold in the night in the Wild.

Once she was deemed properly outfitted, and her coin purse lighter, she and Arathorn headed East out of Bree.

"But what about my letter?" Berylla asked once she realised she wasn't going to get rid of the man.

"Don't worry, I sent some friends with it. Your brother will have no need for worry."

Berylla sighed in relief.

Arathorn studied his small companion as they followed the East Road. He wasn't sure what had driven him to decide to accompany her. Perhaps it was because she looked far too young to be travelling alone, or the scars decorating her left hand. It could even have been the way she had responded to his rudeness with fire. Many hobbits he had met previously had wilted under such treatment, leading him to believe they were not a particularly strong willed race. This one, however, had fought back with frosty manners and an attitude that was likely to get her killed. So deep in his musings of her character that he had forgotten to ask a vital question.

"So, Miss Baggins, where exactly are we going?"

"Rivendell," she replied.

"Ah! The hobbits and their fascination with elves, it rivals their love of pipeweed!" he jested, chuckling at her flush as she was reminded of her comments the previous night.

"That's not why I'm going," she snapped.

"Oh? Then why?"

"Because they believe their friend is alive when she isn't. It isn't right to let them continue believing that," she finally replied after a minute of thought.

Arathorn studied the young hobbit woman beside him again, taking in the frown and unhappy mouth. It was obvious he had hit a nerve. This friend she spoke of must have been dear to Berylla as well as the Elves. He didn't ask any more questions and they continued their walk in silence.

~{+*+}~

It had been three days since Ioreth and Aragost had arrived at the Angle. With her quickness to laugh and willingness to learn Ioreth had quickly been accepted by the Dúnedain people. Aragost watched as she moved through the houses helping the women collect the laundry. She fit in here, he thought. She made people happy, she made _him_ happy, and he wanted nothing more than for her to stay. Ohtar sat beside him, smiling in bemusment at his lord's fascination with the woman as it was so unlike Aragost to be so taken by a lady.

"Will you take her back?" he finally said.

"Back where?" Aragost asked.

"To her family." Ohtar replied. "If she asks, will you take her home?" The unspoken words "Or will you be like Thistlewool?" rested between them.

"Yes," Aragost replied. "If she asks, I will."

Ioreth didn't ask, though. A week passed before she even thought about it. She was so enraptured with the world outside the walls of Fornost she had failed to think of her father or her siblings. She was making a new family with the Dúnedain here and as she moved she could always feel Aragost's gaze on her, although she never actually caught him looking. A hope had kindled in her heart that maybe she could stay, that maybe Aragost and she could be _more_.

The peace that had settled through her days was not to last. It was as she was eating some fresh bread that the homesickness hit. The crisp crust and soft middle were a reminder of her father's ovens and the smiles that were shared in the shop. With a heavy weight on her chest she approached Aragost, who watched her with concerned eyes. He knew, somehow he knew, that this was it, and their time here at the Angle was over.

"Aragost," she asked slowly, "will you take me home?"

~{+*+}~

"This journey would go a lot faster if you would get a pony," Arathorn pointed out three hours into their walk. "It would be a lot less exhausting too."

"A hobbit does not ride a pony," Berylla said firmly. "We are creatures of the earth, and as such our feet don't leave it."

"Suit yourself," came the response, and he started to hum a merry tune. Despite all her misgivings Berylla was coming to accept Arathorn's presence, and his company wasn't so bad once you got over his blunt manner.

Dusk settled and the two searched for a place to make camp. Well, Berylla could admit, _Arathorn_ searched. She simply followed and hoped he knew where was best. In the end they settled under a rocky outcrop that would shelter their fire. Arathorn was not blind to Berylla's unhelpfulness in finding the spot and became determined then and there that he would teach her the necessary skills to survive. He made a fire quickly, before showing her to correct way to create a fire without a flint.

"I do know how to make a fire, you know." Berylla told him eventually, even as the fire failed to catch.

"Oh? Just like how you knew how to find a safe campsite?"

"I know the places in the Shire!" she protested. "It's just…_different_ out here."

Arathorn's face changed from teasing to serious in a heartbeat.

"It is different, Berylla. The Wild is dangerous, and one so unprepared as you could easily perish out here. You have to be careful, and to be careful you have to _learn_." He placed the sticks in her hand, and this time she bent to her task without complaint.

Over the next few days this became routine. Arathorn showed her several useful knots, the correct wood to use for a fire, and how to throw a punch. It was on the fifth day that their supplies finally ran out. Although she knew it would happen, Berylla was nonetheless distraught by this discovery as hobbits love nothing more than food, and allowed herself a good five minutes to wallow in such misfortune. Then Arathorn snapped her out of it, and gave her a quick lesson on what is and isn't edible in the Wild.

"You need to be careful of things with spines," he told her as they searched, "as well as things leaking sap."

"And the plants that smell like almonds, and the ones that look like dill," Berylla parroted back at him. "We do have poisonous plants in the Shire as well." She was getting very fed up at his insistence of treating her like a child.

"Then you should be able to find things without mishap," Aragost retorted, picking up a mushroom.

"No! Not that one," Berylla called out, "that one's poisonous."

"How do you know? It looks like all the others."

"The patterns on it are different. That's a panther cap, it will make you hallucinate and cause your organs to fail."

Aragost was tempted to disbelieve her, after all he'd eaten mushrooms before that looked exactly like that one. Taking in her pale face and earnest eyes however, he decided not to risk it. He had heard somewhere that Hobbits had a love of mushrooms that rivalled their love of pipeweed, and so it made sense that she would recognise a poisonous one. In the end they achieved a veritable feast of plant life, although Berylla insisted on checking each mushroom, finding two more panther caps. ("They look like Blusher Mushrooms," she explained, "which are perfectly fine except when they're growing next to these ones.") For her part Berylla had found a nice patch of daisies that she knew were perfectly good to eat, as well as some marigolds. Aragost warned her though not to eat too many of them, as they were toxic in large amounts. Berylla merely gave him a withering look before saying, quite calmly given her frustration with the man, that she had been taught about plants ever since she could roll over and was well aware what was and wasn't poisonous _thank you very much_. Arathorn apologised almost immediately, after getting over his shock at the little woman's temper, and Berylla gravely forgave him for his condescending manner.

It became a game as the days passed to see what kind of plants they could find and add to the cram Aragost found in the bottom of his pack. It wasn't the nicest of meals, but it was filling. They boiled cattails and clovers, but avoided the asparagus. The plantain was a lucky find, but many of the leaves were too bitter to eat. It was on the fifth day from Bree that Arathorn suddenly notched an arrow and let it fly, hitting a deer Berylla hadn't even noticed.

"Meat for dinner!" Arathorn said triumphantly. "You can learn how to field dress a deer."

Berylla could barely contain her enthusiasm.

If possible it was worse than she imagined. When she slit open the belly the stench forced her to recoil but she forced herself to continue and fight her rising gorge. Blood stained her hands and dress but Arathorn made sure she persevered, calling it essential knowledge. After showing her the correct way, and warning her not to puncture them, she slowly cut the entrails from the spine. He continued to give pointers as she worked until she snapped up at him: "How is this relevant when I can't use a bow?"

This stopped him for a second, before he shrugged and offered to teach her. She raised an eyebrow at that, eyeing the bow he used. It was, without a doubt, much too big for her.

"When we can get you a bow of your own then," he conceded. Berylla grimaced at him, and then pulled the last of the entrails out.

Arathorn was very proud of her achievement. So proud, in fact, that he took over for her, and sent her to wash in the slow stream. Berylla happily handed over the disgusting task and took great pleasure in scrubbing the stench off her hands. Her dress, she realised, was a lost cause. No matter how much she wet it the blood would not come out. As they walked it dried and stiffened the fabric to create a dark brown stain.

The deer lasted them many days as they marched along the Eastern road. They were about two weeks from Rivendell when Berylla noticed a strange shape on top of a hill to the north of them.

"What's that?" she asked.

"That's Weathertop. It used to be the great watchtower of Amon Sûl, but that fell into ruin when Arnor fell."

"Can we go see it?" Berylla asked eagerly. "I've never seen anything so _big_."

Arathorn gave a sharp smile, thinking of all the history that happened on that famous hill. The hobbit wants to see because it's _big. _They diverted their course and made good time, getting to the base before nightfall. Berylla's eyes grew brighter as they drew nearer.

"Come on Arathorn! Last one to the top is a rotten egg!" she cried before scrambling up the path leading upwards.

"You do realise I have longer legs than you It's hardly a challenge."

"Then it's a good thing I have a head start!" she called back.

She laughed as she ran, ignoring the pain in her side. Behind her she could hear Arathorn's heavy footfalls. He insisted that for a man he was very quiet when he walked, but compared to Berylla his footsteps were as loud as hoof beats.

"Oh, wow," she breathed when she reached the top. The sun was close to the horizon, bathing the land before her in red light. She could see for miles in every direction, from the North Downs to the Last Bridge. It was spectacular. She even fancied she could make out the top of the Old Forest way off in the distance. "Bilbo would have loved this," she said. A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she shucked off her pack to find some parchments while some wild berries created an adequate ink. When Arathorn reached her he found her faithfully detailing everything she could see. It wasn't done with the same skill Bilbo possessed, but she hoped it captured the spirit of the place. She drew the ruins as Arathorn made a small fire in an alcove, well aware that being so high up made them visible, and so he hoped to shadow it from sight.

"I thought this trip was simply to go to Rivendell," Arathorn commented.

"It is. But it can't hurt to explore along the way, can it?" she said happily, chewing on the dried out deer meat. Silently, she wondered what else there was to explore.

~{+*+}~

It took a week to prepare everything. Aragost knew that he was stalling but he covered it with excuses. After all, it wouldn't do run out of supplies so quickly and the horses had earned a rest. His last excuse was that he wanted to give Ioreth enough time to say goodbye to all her new friends. In the end though, Ohtar clapped him on the back and chucked him on his horse.

The journey to Bree was remarkably similar to that they had shared previously. They shared songs round the fire, and Ioreth was, as usual, an apt student. She learned the proper seat for riding alone on her horse quickly, and soon the movements of trot and canter became comfortable for her. They travelled up the Greenway, seeing several caravans from which they bought food. One night, about halfway along the road, Ioreth was quiet and withdrawn. It was not at all like she had been previously, even on the way to the Angle.

"Ioreth? What's wrong?" Aragost sat down beside her place at the fire, hesitant to do more than simply lend her his presence.

"I'm afraid," she finally admitted. "What if they believed whatever lies Sidney told? What if they didn't and simply never bothered to look for me? Or what if they force me to go back to him?"

She shook lightly beside him. Deciding to take the risk he put his arm around her and pulled her close, lending his warmth.

"Your family loves you, Ioreth. There is no reason to think that way."

"But what if-"

"No. No 'what ifs', that's the way to madness. You will always have a family, Ioreth, be it the one you've had since birth or the one you've made with the Dúnedain, and _that_ is what you need to hold onto now." He felt her nod against his chest, where she remained throughout the night.

Four days later they came to the gate of the village of Bree. The gatekeeper waved them through without a fuss and got a boy to lead the horses to the stable. Aragost flicked a silver coin at him for his trouble. As they walked through the streets Aragost noticed that more and more people began to stare at Ioreth, who was stubbornly pretending it wasn't happening. Whispers must have reached her father, however, as when they approached the shop the door was flung open and a large man with an impressive beard filled the doorway.

"Ioreth?" he asked, struck dumb at the sight of the daughter he had not seen in so long.

"Father!" she cried, and hurtled towards him, into his embrace. Aragost stood back and watched as the family reunited, not wanting to intrude on such a private moment. Eventually they stepped back, and the large man surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

"Father, this is Aragost, son of Arahad. Aragost, this is my father William Appledore." The two men exchanged nods, but William eyed the Ranger warily. Ioreth, sensing his discomfort, tried to explain his presence. "Father, Aragost saved me from Sidney."

"Saved? He told us he had taken you to visit his mother in Archet."

Ioreth shook her head sadly. "Perhaps, father, we should go inside and I can tell you the full tale."

William nodded, and opened his home to the Ranger. Thankfully, Sidney was not at the shop, having left Bree earlier in the day to run some errands. The trio sat at the large table, and Ioreth explained to her father her imprisonment at Fornost. She explained in detail what Sidney had done, with input from Aragost about what he saw of the watchtower. William fought with his growing anger as the story progressed, eventually reaching the part where Ioreth was taken to the Angle.

"I was so scared, father! I just wanted to get as much distance between me and Sidney as possible, and I had no idea what he had told you or if you thought I was dead and I was so afraid you wouldn't believe me. Please don't be angry with me, father!" she begged.

William drew her close and held her as she cried through her fears, as he had done since she was a child.

"Peace, Ioreth. I believe you. And when that foul rat returns he shall do so for the last time. He won't harm you again, that I promise." Ioreth sagged in relief, and the two parted.

Aragost smiled at Ioreth, pleased that her fears were now put to rest. It was in this quiet moment that the shop door opened once again, and a thin-faced man walked in with easy confidence. He was not the most handsome of men, although his features weren't displeasing, but there was a sinister edge to him, and William wondered why he had never seen Sidney Thistlewool in such a way before.

"Hello, Mr. Appledore! I managed to get-" Thistlewool never explained what he had gotten from the market, as his eyes landed on Ioreth sitting calmly at the table. His face paled.

"Ioreth! Mother had not told me you were returning today," he cried, trying to keep up the charade.

"That may have been because she didn't know. Nor has she ever met me," Ioreth replied acidly.

"Whatever do you mean, dearest?"

"I _mean_, that you locked me in the tallest tower in Fornost!" Ioreth shouted.

"I would never! Ioreth, did you eat a strange mushroom?"

"Mushroom! You dare blame my daughter's imprisonment on a _mushroom,_ you snivelling rat?" William exploded.

"I had to do it!" Sidney whined, seeing that there was no way to escape his employer's wrath. "She would never have stayed with me otherwise!" His protestations turned to anger as spittle flew with every word. "Always she would taunt me by talking to other men! A faithless slut no better than a two copper whore!"

He snarled and moved for Ioreth but fell before he could touch her. William stood over his prone form, a rolling pin heavy in his hand. Stooping to lift him like a sack of flour, William moved to the door, and threw the unconscious man into the street, where a chamber pot was promptly emptied onto him. He awoke smelling of piss and was promptly chased from the town by a number of Ioreth's friends, who had heard his shouting from outside. Thistlewool was forced to return to Archet, where his mother put him to work on the farm in the hope that it would once and for all beat some humility into him.

With the drama done and Ioreth safely returned to her family, Aragost felt that it was time to leave, lest it became too difficult to part with her. This became more difficult than he expected when both Ioreth and William demanded he stay for at least two days. During that time he came to realise that for all his strength William was both gentle and willing to do almost anything to give happiness to his youngest child. Ioreth, for her part, spent the time extracting promises from Aragost that he would write with news every week and that he would visit every other month.

It was a promise that he gladly kept, and through the course of a year their friendship deepened into love. William, seeing how her face lit up in Aragost's presence, gave his blessing, and so the two were married and lived long prosperous lives.

~{+*+}~

By the time Berylla and Arathorn reached the ford of the Bruinen two weeks had passed since their night on Weathertop. Berylla had badgered Arathorn for stories about the fortress for hours, vowing to remember every detail so she could tell them to Bilbo. The river was running quickly at the ford, which Arathorn noted was a little higher than usual. This made no difference to him, as it only came up to his knees. He took Berylla's pack from her, knowing that he could walk across and keep it dry whereas she couldn't.

"Come on Berylla, nearly there!" he said jovially, and began to walk across the ford.

Berylla stood on the edge of dry land, remembering the dire warnings Bungo had given her about going near rivers and lakes.

"Hobbits don't swim," he had said, "they _sink_."

The water, although only going to Arathorn's knees, would go to her waist if she ventured across. She took a breath and placed one foot into the water, only to yank it out again quickly.

"It's cold!" she complained to Arathorn, who was by now halfway across.

"Of course! It runs down from the mountain. Now come on, Berylla! We're going to see the Elves!" Arathorn laughed, not noticing her fear in his elation at being so close to a place dear to his heart. One day he knew that his son would be raised in Rivendell, just as he had been. Back on the opposite bank Berylla huffed at her fear being treated so trivially.

"Just take a step, Berylla," she told herself. "You can do this. _I _can do this."

Taking a deep breath, sure she would be pulled under immediately, Berylla stepped into the Bruinen ford. The water was icy cold and made her gasp for air. She took a step at a time and waded across, thoroughly disgruntled at being so wet. At least some stains may wash out, she thought, and this was the closest thing she'd had to a bath since leaving Bree. Arathorn watched her from dry land, their packs placed safely away from the river.

She was nearly to the shore when it happened. A particularly strong current swept her feet from under her, sending her tumbling into the water. In her panic, she forgot that she could stand, and began to fight with the pull of the river. Berylla fought to get to the surface, but barely had the time to breathe before she was pulled under again. Water rushed into her mouth and it burned as she choked, swallowing more. Arathorn waded in to haul her to the surface as she flailed and gasped for air desperately. Arathorn struggled to get a firm hold on her, earning several bruises in his attempts to get her ashore.

"Berylla! Calm down, you can stand up!" he yelled at her, hoping his voice would cut through the fear. It helped only marginally, but it gave him the opportunity to pull her clear.

As soon as her feet touched dry land Berylla collapsed, shaking and crying.

"I'm never going near water again!" she declared, scratchily. It hurt to talk and she could still feel the water pressing on her chest. In an attempt not to think about the water closing over her head she started wringing out her drenched skirt.

"Really? Because the first thing I'm going to do is teach you to swim." Arathorn countered. "And how to shoot a bow," he added. He could do both. He had time.

"_No,"_ Berylla uttered darkly, before preceding to curse her friend in whispered Hobbitish.

Arathorn picked up the packs and started to walk in the direction of Rivendell, forcing Berylla to run to catch up, her wet skirt weighing her down.

And so it was that Berylla Baggins entered the famed city of Rivendell, at the age of 23, sopping wet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Oh my god. Just. Oh my god.**

**First of all - I suck. I got bogged down with finishing Uni and then finding a job, but I have returned!**

**And with a monster of a chapter.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>Every morning Bilbo Baggins started his day in a familiar and orderly fashion. He began by getting dressed and smartly making his bed, then proceeding to the kitchen he ate a hearty breakfast with his Aunt and Uncle.<p>

After this he would check the mailbox.

There were of course the usual party invitations and letters from various spread out relatives. These, much to Bilbo's dismay, often included many letters from the Sackville-Bagginses containing reproaches and ill-intentioned pieces of advice. Berylla, before she left, would have snarled at the letters before using them to get the fire going. This had the unfortunate side effect of even _more_ letters appearing. His sister, needless to say, was less than impressed.

As well as these there were also documents sent to him regarding the lands owned by the Baggins family. These were largely being handled by his Took relatives, in particular the Old Took and his mother's sisters. Some were being managed by the Baggins family at large, Sackvilles not included, and as such all main documents were sent to him at Bag End. For Bilbo this was something of a mixed blessing. He hadn't realised how extensive the Baggins family business was, involved with many trade caravans which travelled both near and far. It was interesting to see how it all worked, and it piqued his curiosity of far off places. He would examine his Father's map extensively, tracking each place marked and the routes needed to reach them. On mad days he even considered packing up his bag and following Berylla down the road outside his door. It was then that Bilbo remembered Bungo's words.

"_For as long as anyone can remember, there has always been a Baggins under The Hill."_

He wasn't necessarily talking about Bag End of course. That had been built with Bungo's own hands, meant as proof of his love for Belladonna. But before Bag End had been built there had been another smial there. It was small and had definitely seen better days. When the Baggins that had lived there died, it had passed into Bungo's hands, who immediately made improvements, making it larger, better and adding a much needed lick of paint. It did however, mean what Bungo said was true. There was always a Baggins under The Hill.

But despite how interesting these letters were to Bilbo, there were not the correspondence he desired. It had been a month and a half since Berylla had left the Shire and so far only one letter had arrived, letting her brother know she had gotten to the town of Bree.

It was this particular morning however that brought a spring to Bilbo's carefully groomed feet.

Berylla had finally written.

~{+*+}~

_This is the story of Marigold Puddifoot, as it was told to Bilbo Baggins._

There was once a time when Hobbits didn't occupy the rolling hills of the Shire. Their old home they have since forgotten but there are some who remember. Before the Brown Lands were nothing more than an empty wasteland they were lush and green. They were a friendly place, and gave life to the forgotten Entwives. Near to this place, to the north of what would one day become the land of the Rohirrim, there lived another race.

_(The one who gathered this story had leaned eagerly forward and pressed for details for where exactly this was. Sadly, the wizard who told this story had long since forgotten, and so the hobbit had no choice but to leave the matter be.)_

This race was gentle, kind, and had a love for all things green, hard work, and the small things instilled in them by their beloved Mother and her Sister and Brother, Yavanna, Vàna and Oromë. It was because of this connection to Yavanna, that her chosen Aiwendil watched over them so carefully, knowing that their peaceful natures would one day make them easy pickings for the races preferred by Olórin and Curumo. To the Hobbits however, he was simply known as Radagast.

It was to him that they went to learn the secrets of animal-lore (and eventually the potential hidden in mushrooms), and it was to the Entwives that they went to learn the secrets of plant-lore. It is this knowledge, and only this, that survived The Wandering and the settling of the Shire, even though the location of their homeland was lost.

~{+*+}~

When Berylla first gazed upon the Last Homely House she was, understandably, rather grumpy. Her skirts were sodden, and though it was still warm a chill had set over her. In comparison her companion Arathorn was decidedly cheerful. His stride was irritatingly long, forcing her to nearly jog to keep up with him. He seemed to have forgotten his young friend's short stature in his haste to see his friends once more.

Eventually, after catching herself on her skirts more than once, Berylla snapped.

"Arathorn! _Slow down!_"

The man caught himself mid-stride, looking back at her slightly abashed.

"I'm sorry Berylla, but don't worry its not far now, and my lord Elrond has greeted many guests far shabbier looking than you."

"Shabby? I look _shabby?_" Berylla demanded. "I'm about to meet the friends of my mother in order to tell them that she's _dead_ and you're telling me I look _shabby!"_

Arathorn blanched.

"No! No of course not, Berylla. All I meant was you had no need to nervous!"

"I'm _not_ nervous!" Berylla snapped, belatedly realising how stupid she sounded.

Arathorn held up his hands in surrender.

Berylla huffed for a moment. "Give me my pack," she said.

"It's no trouble to carry it," Arathorn protested.

"It's not that. It has my other dress in it."

"Ah. Okay then."

Berylla ducked behind the bushed with her dress, happily shucking off the green and brown travelling outfit she bought with Arathorn. Her blue and green dress was wrinkled from being in her pack as well as having one or two grass stains, but it was better than what she had been wearing. She wrung out the damp fabric as she walked back to Arathorn.

"Better?" he asked with a wry twist of his lips.

A faint blush spread across her cheeks but she refused to let any embarrassment show. It was perfectly reasonable to want to look at least somewhat presentable when delivering such news.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, with all the dignity her Baggins self could muster. Arathorn took the dress from her and snapped it out, sprinkling the grass with droplets. Berylla took her pack from the ground and Arathorn hooked her dress onto the back of it, tying the sleeves to the straps. It was a bit awkward, and definitely looked a bit strange, but it would get the fabric dry and she no longer felt like a drowned rat.

"Well then," Arathorn said, sweeping out a hand in Rivendell's direction, "shall we?"

"We shall," Berylla replied with a small grin, as her chest tightened in preparation for what was to come.

~{+*+}~

As with all fauntlings, Marigold Puddifoot was a curious soul.

The village where she was born and where she played since her mother had slung her over her back and brought her to the centre of town as a month old babe was small. Not as small as some of course, there was one, just a little ways north nearer to the Elves (who were awfully aloof and not at all like the wonderful Entwives that would visit sometimes) there was a village that consisted of only three families. At least here there were seven!

The largest town, in the middle of all the smaller settlements, wasn't too far of course, but Marigold loved her village. Her parents, not being as rich as the Proudfeet who were the most powerful in the village, lived in a small house above ground. Not in the warm hills as was preferable to the Hobbits. But that was okay, her parents loved her and she loved them.

It was on a trip to the village when, as a small faunt all of eight years old, saw _the wizard._ Hobbits, being a peaceful and insular folk had a strange relationship with this wizard. A strange old man in brown robes with a beard that needed tending and a birds nest beginning to take shape in his hair he was regarded by some as an intruder to the peace. He was however, very useful when it came to animals and plants (including of course mushrooms) and so the Hobbits welcomed him, although they never fully trusted him.

It is noted here that this attitude towards wizards also survived the Wandering.

Radagast didn't seem to mind this however, and was content to sit in the village square surrounded by the animals of the village. Curious, Marigold peaked from behind her mother's skirts and watched him heal a dog's broken leg, before chuckling and stroking a nearby horse as a goat began to chew on his hat.

It was decided then, in her child's mind, that this wizard was most definitely strange.

And yet, somehow, someway, it seemed, strangely, _wonderful._

~{+*+}~

The Last Homely House West to the Sea was a beautiful sight. The buildings were built in harmony with the flourishing trees, blanketing the valley in greenery she'd not seen since leaving the Shire. They crossed a thin bridge, the river flowing far below her. She felt her knees quake a little at the dizzying height, but Arathorn's hand on her shoulder kept her steady. In front of the large courtyard where the two waited, a tall elf descended the stairs.

"_Mae g'ovannen, Lindir! Gwannas lû and_." Arathorn greeted the stranger happily. Berylla listened intently, her Sindarin rusty at best. It was nice to apply the lessons her father has taught her.

"_I naw nîn ben naw gîn_," Lindir smiled at the ranger. Berylla caught the general greeting phrases and the light teasing but soon they were talking at such a rapid pace she was completely lost.

She shuffled on her feet lightly. The sound caught Lindir's attention and a wide smile broke out on his face. He opened his mouth to greet her, wondering why she hadn't spoken before (she was usually so vocal!), when the familiar name caught in his throat.

"_Iston i níveg,_" Lindir said softly. "_Man le?"_

"Lindir, this is my friend Berylla Baggins," Arathorn interrupted. "She has come with news for Lord Elrond."

Berylla tried her best to contain the flinch that passed through her at the thought, but Lindir caught the movement and the smile he had worn since greeting Arathorn faded.

"I see," He said, and Berylla was afraid he did see, "Follow me."

Lindir turned and went back up the stairs. Arathorn inclined his head at Berylla and the two followed the tall elf. Although the buildings were beautiful and the scenery breathtaking, Berylla felt her stomach tighten with every step. She'd not had to break the news of her parents death before, the people of Hobbiton had known (they'd heard the screams) and others had broken the news for relatives further away.

Lindir knocked on the door frame (although there was no door) to a large, airy room, where a single elf worked steadily behind a desk.

At the sound of the interruption, Lord Elrond looked up from his missive to the Lady Galadriel to greet his visitors. As with Lindir as soon as he saw Berylla he smiled, before pausing and looking again.

"Arathorn, my friend, it has been too long since you visited." Elrond said.

"So I've ben told," Arathorn responded dryly, sharing a look with Lindir who simply smiled.

"And this time, you bring a guest," Elrond turned to Berylla who picked nervously at her dress. "_Gi nathlam hi, perian._"

"_La fael_," Berylla replied haltingly, "_Im_, Berylla Baggins."

"It is nice to meet you Miss Baggins, I am Lord Elrond. What brings you to Rivendell?"

"Well, my lord, um…" Berylla looked at the floor and took a breath. She could do this. Bilbo believed it, so she did too.

She reached into her pack, and Elrond raised a defined eyebrow as she rummaged intently for a moment for drawing out two books.

"My brother and I received these this Spring," she handed the books to Elrond, who took them out of reflex. Taking a breath, Berylla continued. "I…My brother and I…we thought someone should tell you in person, especially since you didn't know and possibly no one really knew she was in contact with the elves of Rivendell but she _was_ and we had no idea so when the books arrived we knew someone had to tell you so I came here and –" She broke off and swallowed the train of words that threatened to spill out.

"Belladonna and Bungo Baggins passed this last Winter. I'm so sorry," she choked.

Elrond closed his eyes and stilled for a long moment. He had been afraid that this day would come but not that it would come so soon. His hands shook, holding the books tightly. Belladonna was beloved by his family, and although they had all been alive for many mortal lifetimes each mortal death was felt like a knife through the chest.

He was aware of Lindir showing the two out of his study and away into the city. He knew his steward would make sure his guests were tended too and shown rooms, leaving Elrond to slump in his chair and mourn his friend.

~{+*+}~

He came back every week.

One time, as he sat in the village square surrounded by animals, she watched him heal a mangled fox cub.

A larger animal has swiped him with their claws, leaving behind large gashes down the cubs flank. The wizard though had simply scooped him up into his arms and began to croon at the animal in a language Marigold couldn't understand. A few minutes later the cub squirmed away from the wizard, jumping lightly to the ground and chirping its thanks.

The next week he healed an owl with a broken wing.

After that a field mouse that had been hunted by the owl.

Sometimes she tried to follow him as he vanished into the woods, but as she darted from tree to tree he got further and further away, as if the trees themselves had swallowed him up. She got closer to him each time though, but always he seemed just out of reach.

The last time she tried she didn't bother to hide, instead she followed him at a slow walk as he strode through the trees. Before he vanished she caught sight of a sled made out of fine wood and…pulled by large rabbits?

He winked at her before vanishing.

She didn't come near him again for the next month.

~{+*+}~

It was decided by everyone involved that the letter could not be read without a biscuit. Possibly three. Or four.

Donnamirra sighed and put out the entire plate.

With the kettle boiled and the tea steeping Bilbo cleared his throat and began to read Berylla's account of her days in Rivendell.

_Dearest Bilbo,_

_You would love it here. Yes, I made it! I have told my Lord Elrond about our mother's passing and he passes on his condolences to you through this letter. He has been most kind to me, allowing me to stay in wonderful rooms. Oh, Bilbo you would love it here! Everything is so peaceful and the people! Bilbo the elves are such an amazing people they really are. I can see now why Mother held such friendship dear…_

Berylla wakes up that first day to Arathorn banging on the door. Irate, and not quite ready to be awake, Berylla pulled the door wide in nothing but the nightgown the Elves had generously given her. (She thinks it originally belonged to a child).

"_What?_" she growled. Her bed was _comfortable_ and _soft_, and the manner in which he woke her was simply plain _rude._

"Well there's a good morning for you," said the overly cheery and clearly insensible ranger.

"It was better when I was _sleeping_," she snapped back, smoothing down her hair, her inner-Baggins trying to make herself slightly more respectable. The Took part of her was too annoyed at having been woken to care.

"Well once you get in the water you'll wake right up."

Berylla's hands stopped in her hair.

"Water?"

"Well how else do you expect to learn to swim?"

"Swimming?"

"Do you mean to repeat everything I say?" Light hands turned her from the door and pushed her back inside. "Chop, chop, swimming first and then breakfast."

The door shut before she could tell him _exactly_ what she thought of that.

…_That Man! The nerve of him, Bilbo, I tell you. That day he chucked me in a pond and said swim. That, needless to say, did not go to well. After that little debacle Lord Elrond's sons, Elrohir and Elladan decided to take over as my swimming instructors. I fear that they will not be any better than the previous scoundrel. _

_Perhaps though, they were not being as terrible as I thought. After telling Lord Elrond the news, I had feared that I would once more fall into my grief. However, thanks to certain individuals who shall remain nameless, I did not think of it once that entire day until it was time to sleep. Perhaps, and this is giving them far more credit than I feel like giving them, they were being kind with the dunking and the laughing and the desperately-trying-not-to-sink-ing. _

_I would like to think that I'm getting better though. Or at least I don't flounder when my feet no longer touch the bottom. They'll make me a Stoor yet!_

Berylla wrung her hair out with a towel, before trying to pat the damp curls dry. Her stomach grumbled and she sighed. Honestly that man had no idea how to treat a hobbit lady like herself. In time for breakfast! It was almost time for elevenses for Yavanna's Sake, and judging by how skinny those Elves are they had no idea how to treat a hobbit either. There was nothing for it, she would just have to find the kitchens and go from there. Just as soon as she managed to sort out her hair. There were reasons Hobbits didn't swim. One was that they weren't fans of getting wet (unless it was for bathing). The second was that Hobbits, like sensible folk, had a rather keen fear of drowning. The third, and the most important right now, was that hobbit hair was _curly_, and when wet it went nigh on untameable.

With a growl that was echoed by her stomach she snatched up some bands and deftly plaited her now slightly damp hair into twin braids. The dress was one given to her by the elves, just like the entire wardrobe in her room. Some she could tell used to belong to elfish children, but others were distinctly hobbit-y like this one. It was a light green with red flowers stitched into the skirt and bodice. She wrapped the green fichu around her shoulders, covering the scar that travelled down the left of her chest to the centre. Glancing down she could spot the marks covered by freckles on her hands and arms, and the scratches hidden by the carefully combed hair on her feet.

Once she deemed herself presentable enough she headed out into the halls in the search of the kitchens, quickly becoming Very Very Lost. Somehow, and she will never know how, she managed to find herself in some high up gallery, stunning views of the valley on both sides with no railing. Sticking to the middle of the walkway Berylla made her way across, before ending up on a large balcony. This one, thankfully, had a barrier. Exhausted from all the swimming and the walking (and still no food!) Berylla sat down and her eyes drifted shut.

When Lindir and Erestor finally found her, having been sent to make sure the hobbit had found something to eat, she had slept right through lunch.

Berylla was not impressed.

_Erestor gave me a map after that. I've only gotten lost once or twice since then, and that's usually because I followed directions from the twins, those terrors. That night I was invited to dinner with Lord Elrond's family. I had to dress up and everything! It was a little like attending one of Grandmother's fancy lunches, except much grander! (Please don't tell her that.) His three children were there, as well as Lindir, Erestor, and Arathorn. They were all very kind and told lots of wonderful stories of Mother. I've included them with the letter, but I don't have your gift when it comes to story-telling. But story-gathering, that I can do. And Bilbo they have so many of them here! I will have to remember every detail to tell them to you. Or one day soon we shall travel here together, and then you shall hear them yourself. _

_But enough about that, the dinner. I offered the books back to Lord Elrond but he waved them away. He said that they were meant for our education, and so they should stay with us. I told you he was kind. Of course then Elrohir said that he would have to add Sindarin to the list of things to teach me. Apparently, it's a rather extensive one. _

_This letter is being sent with Arathorn, he has to leave Rivendell soon and promised to pass through the Shire. Please offer him some tea and biscuits, I promised him that Aunt Donnamira's were the best in all the Shire. _

_I love you Bilbo, stay safe and I will see you soon._

_Is féidir le do ghairdín bhláth dheartháir riamh gile_

_Your loving sister,_

_Berylla. _

"Oh bother," Bilbo said at the end of the letter.

"Bother? Bilbo, dear, she sounds like she's having a marvellous time!" Donnamira scolded, and Hildibrand snagged the last biscuit.

"It appears I need to chase down a Ranger and invite him to tea."

"Ask a Bounder," Hildibrand said round the biscuit. "They're the ones that keep track of that sort."

"Yes, off you go," Donnamirra agreed, shooing him with her hands. "I've got some baking to do."

So it was that Bilbo found himself pushed out of his home in order to chase down a Ranger. A Ranger with no description except for being tall and prone to pushing hobbits into ponds.

Berylla was lucky he loved her.

After asking two Bounders, buying everyone at the Green Dragon half a pint, and fending off several relations, he eventually found a Ranger striding down the lane towards Tookborough.

"Excuse me!" He called, hastening his steps. The Ranger paused and turned, waiting for Bilbo to catch up.

"Would you, erm, perhaps, would you be Master Arathorn?" Bilbo asked in between pants. The Ranger's stride was long and what may be ten steps to him was twenty to the shorter fellow.

"I would be, although most simply call me Arathorn," he replied. "And who would you be?"

"Ah, Bilbo Baggins. At your service." Bilbo said. "I'm here to invite you to tea, although that is poor thanks for the care you have given my sister."

"It would be my pleasure to accept, although there is no need to thank me. I have heard wondrous things about your Aunt's biscuits."

"Yes well, I can only hope they live up to my sister's stories."

"I'm sure they will."

They walked through Hobbiton and up to Bagshot Row, curious stares followed them through. Of course, given the average hobbit's propensity for gossip, everyone knew of the Bilbo's search for the Man. Most agreed that it was something to do with the disappearance of Berylla. It was only when Bilbo noticed these stairs that perhaps the most terrifying thought occurred to him.

"Arathorn, I'm afraid I must apologise," he said worriedly.

"Apologise? Whatever for? Unless it's for your sister's snoring."

"My sister does not snore!" He defended automatically. _She does._ "No, it is not that. I'm afraid that you may be interrogated over tea and biscuits."

"Ah."

The two walked up to The Hill, and if it was with a bit more trepidation than before than neither of them mentioned it.

In Rivendell, Berylla fell off a pony.

~{+*+}~

For the wizard, this game of Hide'n'Seek was tremendous fun. Although perhaps, in hindsight, the winking was a bit much. He'd only meant to tease the young fauntling, not scare her away! (Although the way she'd gasped and paled and been rather funny). Strangely, he'd become rather fond of his little shadow, the one with brown hair and light feet, the one called Marigold. Not the hare that had decided he was the best thing to come to Middle Earth. He kept an eye out for her on every one of his visits, but it wasn't until a month later that she appeared again. (Yay!)

She didn't approach and she didn't follow him into the woods, but she had come closer to him and the animals than she had before. If he was honest he would admit that he wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the pleased chattering of a squirrel who was recounting the story of a girl saving him from some "uptight puss". The cat in question, perched nearby, hissed in response. Silly thing.

On a whim, the wizard made a flower bloom next to her. A marigold of course. The hobbit child took one look at it and scarpered. He didn't laugh. He _didn't. _(Alright maybe a little chuckle.)

But she came back the next week.

It was as if that flower had been some sort of silent signal. Every week after that Marigold would sit with Radagast in the square, the animals quickly growing attached to her. Particularly the cat, whom Marigold would obligingly scratch behind the ears whenever it was demanded of her. (_Spoiled, _silly thing). It was the cat who she first brought to Radagast to heal. After that it was a squirrel. Then a hedgehog. A dog. On one memorable occasion she even dragged him down to a small pond to tend to a sick swan. (The swan wasn't happy to receive the attention and knocked the wizard clear into the pond).

With each animal Marigold learned more. Radagast, whether he was conscious of it or not, would talk as he healed the animals. She learned the names of bones, and organs, and plants, what to feed them and what not. He would answer when she asked questions too, the replies becoming longer and more involved as she grew.

As a tween, Marigold spent as much time in Radagast's home as she did her own. She was no hedgewitch, not at all, but she understood his explanations of herb-lore so well that soon she began to anticipate what he would need to heal a creature. It happened slowly, without either of them particularly noticing, but a friendship formed between them, stronger than the roots of an oak tree. (Like the one Radagast had found growing in his house one morning).

~{+*+}~

One month into Berylla's stay at Rivendell, a letter for her arrived, delivered by perhaps the most unlikely person.

He rode into the courtyard in dirt stained armour, a wide grin on his elegant face. Berylla watched from a balcony as Elrond greeted him warmly, pulling him close for an embrace. Straining her ears, they were elfin in more than look, she managed to catch some of their conversation.

"It is good to see you, old friend," Elrond said.

"It is good to be back!" replied the stranger. "I've been on the road for months and I have yet to encounter somewhere with as comfortable beds as here,"

"So it is the furnishings, and not the people that cause you to visit. I have always wondered. Perhaps I should change it all," Elrond mused with ill-concealed mischief.

"You wouldn't," challenged the elf.

The lord was silent as he walked up the path, the stranger hurrying to catch up. As they vanished from view Berylla became unable to hear their conversation. Having finished being a nosy gossip, she was a hobbit after all and one must keep track of all comings and goings in a place like this, Berylla hopped off the bench and made her way out to the training fields.

It had not been too long ago when she left her home in the Shire, where Summer would be in full swing. Which meant parties long into the night and the trees would be laden with fruit. She smiled thinking of all the mischief the fauntlings would be getting up to – namely the time honoured tradition of sneaking away still hot pies placed on unwatched window sills. She was however, now different from the hobbit that left her home. The month of travelling to Rivendell had started the transformation, strengthening her leg muscles and wearing away some of the excess fat on her body. Staying in Rivendell had only completed the change. Although they fed her properly, perhaps not all 7 meals but definitely hobbit sized portions, the fat all hobbits carried was now near gone. This was due to those Horrible-No-Good-Mean-Well-Meaning-Idiotic-Terrible-Twins.

They had made it their mission to finish what Arathorn had started. Every day they drilled her in swimming, and riding and archery, all with varying degrees of success.

She still hated swimming.

And she was sure the pony (named Sweetfoot) hated her.

Archery however, she _loved _archery.

Sweeping her hair up into a messy braid, and tying it with a pink ribbon from her pocket, she hurried along.

"You're late," Elladan said as she arrived.

"No I'm not," she replied. "You're just too early."

"Elves are never early, but always on time."

"I thought that was wizards?"

Behind her, Elrohir laughed.

"And is pink really the best colour for training?" Elladan continued.

"I couldn't find a brown one."

Elrohir handed her the brown finger-less leather gloves and she nearly groaned, and headed off towards the stables.

"Be quick!" Elladan called.

"If that pony kills me it's your fault!"

When she went back to the brothers it was with a pony in tow, and straw in her hair.

The twins, showing that despite their attitudes they do in fact possess that elfish wisdom, didn't ask.

Someone did, however, _laugh_.

Eyes narrowed, Berylla took in the newcomer, vaguely recognising him as the stranger from the courtyard, who was currently lounging against the paddock fence.

Surprisingly Sweetfoot seemed to share Berylla's irritation, although that could have just been the pony's general attitude.

"You know it's rude to laugh at people, _especially_ when they've never been introduced."

"My apologies, I've just never seen such a horse-woman before." His eyes twinkled with his amusement.

Hands on hips, Berylla faced the blonde stranger.

"I'll have you know a hobbit spends her time with her feet _firmly_ on the ground. Not dangling every which way on a murderous pony!" she snapped.

Sweetfoot started eating the hay in her hair.

"Then you must be a very good hobbit, as you clearly are an inept rider."

"I'm still learning!"

"Not with your feet on the ground you aren't,"

The twins were studiously busy elsewhere, setting up targets in the paddock that they'd set up twenty minutes ago. There was no point in getting mixed up in a disagreement between those two. Nope. No way. Not Happening.

The two glared at each other some more.

"Oh put a sock in it," she huffed eventually, and turned away, guiding the pony towards the paddock. The rude elf simply laughed.

"I'd heard there was a hobbit in Rivendell, but I hadn't realised it was one so rude,"

Taking a breath she steeled herself. If she could deal with the Sackville-Bagginses, with the stares of Hobbiton and being separated from Bilbo, then she could _definitely_ deal with this…_cretin_.

"I am only rude to those who are rude to _me._ That way they may _learn_ something and not do it again. _Especially _those who do not bother to introduce themselves."

"How very lax of me I do apologise. Rudeness is always better tolerated when one knows the name of the person they are being rude to." Hopping the fence separating them the elf walked towards her and offered a bow.

"My name is Glorfindel, Mistress, and who might I be addressing,"

"Berylla Baggins, nice to meet you," she replied instinctively, trying to remember where she'd heard the name before. Bilbo would know. It was there, somewhere in her mind, it was familiar, where had she…no, it was gone. The twins and Glorfindel watched her curiously as thought they were expecting some sort of reaction.

"Well now that's sorted, did you have some reason for insulting me, or was it just for fun?"

Looking slightly abashed, but not at all apologetic, Glorfindel answered.

"I'm not too sure really. I'd heard quite a bit about the lady hobbit visiting Rivendell and I was curious so I came to find you. I was…surprised by your appearance and it caused me to laugh."

And just like that the anger she was holding against him vanished. He was just so _awkward_, and clearly had no way of knowing how to dig himself out of this hole.

"Well, I suppose that's alright then," she said, giving a decisive nod. The Twins, seeing that the danger had passed, moved closer towards the pair. Elladan gave Sweetfoot a quick pat and the pony practically preened at him. Berylla snorted.

Fickle thing.

Like the noise had summoned her mount, Sweetfoot turned her attention back to Berylla, and the hay that was still in her hair.

"_Mordor take it!_ Get this bothersome pony _out of my hair!_"

Laughter echoed her statement as Berylla attempted to evade Sweetfoot's teeth. The twins, of course, were useless, practically falling on each other as they laughed. To their credit, they did try to get a hold of themselves to help, but the scene of Berylla stuck with her hair in Sweetfoot's mouth was just too much for them.

It was, to Berylla's chagrin after being so rude to him, Glorfindel who came to her rescue. He touched Sweetfoot's head, stroking his hand down her nose. Sweetfoot stepped away immediately, and Berylla could be heard muttering about evil ponies and unnatural elfin magicks. Glorfindel laughed.

"Thankyou, Master Glorfindel, for your timely rescue."

"A pleasure to help a damsel in distress," he said with a bow. "But please, enough with the Master, I am simply Glorfindel,"

"And I am simply Berylla. None of this damsel business,"

"Well, perhaps if those two could stop laughing for a while, we can help fix that. Starting with making sure you and Sweetfoot get along."

And that became one of the best horse riding lessons she'd had since she got there. Somehow the sons of Elrond had forgotten a fundamental rule of teaching someone to ride. And that is that not everyone is a natural with horses like elves are. Before their teaching methods had been along the lines of:

Put hobbit on pony.

Wait for hobbit to fall off.

Glorfindel however was a much better teacher. He talked her through the basics, like where to place her legs and how to hold the reins.

"Okay there we go, now…let's get you two to walk,"

"I think she'd prefer to just throw me,"

"That was because you were sitting wrong, this time it will go much better. And afterwards we will go through grooming her and possibly bribing,"

Berylla nodded, still unsure. With a pat of Sweetfoot's rump the pony started off on a walk, with Berylla valiantly trying to stay in the saddle.

"Heels down!"

"Head up!"

"Elbows tucked in!"

Slowly, very slowly, Berylla began to improve. And by improve it meant she didn't fall off, and that she was smiling by the end of it.

After grooming Sweetfoot and bribing her with sugar cubes, Berylla spent the rest of the day in the kitchens with the tall, willowy cooks. They had gotten used to the hobbit visiting them, and the group had spent time exchanging recipes and stories and laughter. Today, the cook Gwaerenil and she were working to create the best scones they could. The end result, Berylla decided, would make Aunt Donnamirra proud, especially when paired with fresh cream and fruit preserves. Once cooked the elves all sat down in the kitchen and spent the time before dinner preparation demolishing the scones and talking about the new arrivals. According to them it was not just Glorfindel who had arrived that day but also a group of _dwarves_.

Lanthirphen told her that they were from the Iron Hills, and that they had only stopped there to replenish their supplies. They were on their way to the Blue Mountains to visit their kin. Once that train of thought started they began to talk of larger things than the hobbit could understand, of the collapse of far off kingdoms and the dubious actions of long standing allies. To Berylla it was a mess of names and events that she couldn't understand without proper context, but that fruit preserve was simply wonderful and well worth staying for, even if she didn't understand what the elves were speaking of.

She kept an eye out for them as she walked the halls back to her room to change for dinner, but it seemed as though they were keen to stick to themselves, and she never saw them, not then or until she left. She never got a straight answer about whether it was intentional on the part of the elves or the dwarves.

It was when she reached her room that she found the letters pinned to the door with a covering note.

_Berylla,_

_I do apologise for this, when we met earlier I completely forgot about them. Please find the letters here from your family. Arathorn meant to carry them here, but he had to go south to see his kin. _

_Your new friend,_

_Glorfindel._

With a broad smile she grabbed at the letters. There was one from her aunt and uncle, her grandfather, Arathorn, and most importantly from Bilbo!

Placing the letter from Bilbo aside for last, she opened the note from Arathorn. What was written was short and made her frown.

_Dear Berylla,_

_The biscuits were lovely. Your brother was very kind. The rest of your family is terrifying._

_Arathorn._

Quickly she reached for the letter from her Aunt and Uncle.

_Dearest Berylla,_

_We hope this letter finds you well. That Ranger friend of yours was ever so nice when we had him over for tea, though he seemed a bit puzzled at all the questions. Strange fellow. Bilbo is doing fine without you, we all are. Although the summer parties will be poorer without both you and Bilbo telling all those fantastic stories. _

_Have a marvellous time travelling, my dear, just as your mother would have wished._

_Fan sábháilte,_

_Your Aunt and Uncle._

Questions? They _questioned_ Arathorn? Oh dear, the poor man. They would not have left a stone unturned in their desire to know more. The one from her grandfather was next.

_Granddaughter,_

_Be kind to those elves will you? Your mother often mentioned how different the elves were. All slender and tall and whatnot. Not very hobbity at all if you ask me. But then I suppose no one did. Oh we are all so proud of you. We know how much it took for you to leave the Shire and travel to Rivendell. Your mother would say the exact same thing were she here. Your father too, though he may be quieter about it. Yavanna knows that hobbit could be as troublesome as a Took when the mood took him. _

_Now as for that Ranger. His answers were most unsatisfactory, it was like trying to make a stone blossom. Your Grandmother nearly had to sit on him to get him to tell us everything. Clearly he had no idea about the inquisitive of hobbits. Shame on you granddaughter for sending him to us unprepared. Although your Grandmother disagrees, she's been laughing about it for days now, says it was marvellous fun. Ah well, I suppose we can only be glad that the rest of your uncles were busy elsewhere._

_We miss you and wish you well._

_Yavanna a choimeád sábháilte agat , Vana choinneáil do fréamhacha láidir agus Oromë do shúile gear._

_Choinneáil ar ár dteanga sábháilte._

_Grandpa Took._

Berylla sighed, recognising the order for what it was. As soon as she was finished reading the letters she would have to burn them, or at least the endings. The final letter she read avidly.

_My dearest Sister,_

_That poor Ranger. That poor, poor, Ranger. First, Aunt Donnamirra lured him in with biscuits and tea. Then Uncle Hildibrand confused him with talk of fishing and crops. And then, then, __**then, **__Grandfather arrived. With Grandmother. Someone had to have taken a cart down to Tookborough, and then met them on the road, in order to get them there that first. She sat on him, Berylla. She sat on him, fed him biscuits, and interrogated him. _

_But enough. Berylla, I cannot tell you how happy I was to receive your letter. I've been so worried about you. Thank you for the stories about Mother, I passed them on to the family once I read them. They're all demanding that once you come back you must tell them everything. __**I **__am demanding you tell __**me**__ everything._

_Are there any other stories there? I'm ever so curious about it all. _

_I'm glad that Lord Elrond and his family are treating you so kindly, and even me by extension and they don't even know me. _

_Come home safe._

_Yavanna bless,_

_Bilbo._

_P.S. I gave him a garlic biscuit for throwing you in the pond. He promised to never do it again. _

~{+*+}~

It was midday that he realised something was wrong.

He wondered at first if he had somehow forgotten the day again, although he could usually pin point it by the food Marigold delivered. She was always doing that, although he sometimes forgot to eat it. Then she would scold him until he did. Today, he knew, was the day when she would come and deliver some cheese and fruits. And she hadn't been by yet.

Concern drove him to travel down to the village, and a niggling feeling in his gut made him hurry.

What he found was daggers in his old heart. He had known they were in the area, _of course_ he had. The sparrow had warned him just this past week, and that bat had been most concerned, but the trees (oh the trees!) they had been damaged, damaged, _damaged_ by their axes and fires. But he had never thought that they would come here of all places.

The village was in chaos.

Doors had been smashed apart, shutters ripped from their frames and gardens trampled to mud. Hobbits were there picking through the mess, a chipped tea cup, a dirty doily and a shattered cart. The cat lay very still.

Stiller were a small pile of even smaller bodies, all covered in stained white sheets. (The smallest would have not reached his knees when it once stood).

Separate from them was one other body, taller than the rest. He felt the urge to kick it and revelled in the victorious feeling of revenge.

A cold pit filled his centre, an anger that had not reached him since coming to Middle Earth. Not since he and his order had completed their mission. Had helped destroy Sauron and his evil works. It had gone to sleep, that anger, that terrible, terrible anger that filled him with icy fury and terrifying sense of calm. He thinks some called out to him, asked him for help, but he didn't hear. He couldn't hear them, not over the blood rushing hot through his veins. (And his arteries. And the breath in his lungs and the hammering of his heart and the pulse in his head).

He found the raiders not three leagues from the village. They, thinking themselves safe (not safe, _never_ safe), had set up camp and were merrily whistling and whittling and whiling away their time (not a lot of it left now). Then the world stopped again. There in the middle of the camp sat a small cage.

With Marigold and two fauntlings inside.

He supposes this was what they had wanted to tell him in the village.

The first raider died silently. His heart just ceased to beat.

The second grasped his head as his brain swelled.

Marigold covered the eyes of the children but kept her own eyes wide open. This was Radagast the Warrior Wizard, the mythical figure in one of Grandpa's stories.

The fourth Man died when an air bubble formed in his blood.

The fifth and sixth drowned.

The seventh killed himself with his own fear.

~{+*+}~

After a late lunch with Erestor and Lindir, Berylla made her way down to the library. After receiving Bilbo's letter she had been spending more and more time there. Well, when she could. Somehow, and she couldn't quite figure out how, her swimming lessons had been replaced with swords and daggers.

She blamed Glorfindel.

The library had become her place of sanctuary. Elrond had often found her there, the Lord often becoming caught in telling Berylla some tale from a far off land. Every word she absorbed and remembered, writing them down to take back to her brother. She knew he would love all of them, his desire for stories far outstripping her own.

Sweetfoot also provided some solace from Glorfindel and the Twins. The pony, in a complete turnaround of attitude, had decided that no one was going to hassle her hobbit when the lessons were over. In return for some apples, and not a small amount of sugar cubes, Sweetfoot was a good guard.

But it was the library that she loved most of all. In between the stories told to her by Lord Elrond, she had become fast friends with the librarian. Gaerphen had grown used to the hobbit wondering around the stacks, and had been quick to help her find the best books for stories and maps. Somehow, in between talking about the best route to reach the ports of the Grey Havens or the rumours surrounding Fangorn Forest, Gaerphen had become her teacher in Sindarin. Strangely, she found herself struggling to read the texts, but when listening she could make out the words quickly and without much trouble. Gaerphen assured her that such a thing was very common, and that given enough time her reading would surely catch up with her listening and speaking abilities.

The best place for her to practise was definitely the Hall of Fire. It was not terribly busy every night, but there were times, perhaps more often than not, that the Hall was filled with music and cheer, quiet conversations and loud joking. Some were there simply to read surrounded by good company, while others were happy just to listen to the world around them. Berylla fell into the latter group. They became used to her sitting in a chair by the fire, leaning forward eagerly to catch every word said around her.

It was, perhaps, the best education in language she could have gotten.

A frequent visitor to the Hall was the Lord's daughter Arwen. For some reason, and she couldn't quite fathom why, the woman had decided to take the young hobbit under her wing. When she left Rivendell it occurred to Berylla that Arwen was trying to off-set the influence of her brothers and Glorfindel. Like her father the elf maid had a keen mind for stories, but she also shared her brothers' love of mischief. A lot of the stories told ended with Elladan and Elrohir in some sort of trouble.

Knowing that the two brothers once ended up covered in green dye and flour after a prank gone wrong made the lessons go a lot easier.

~{+*+}~

When he returned Marigold and the children to the village he was greeted with cheers and celebration. They called him a hero.

He fled.

A _hero._

He hated that. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. He was not a hero. He killed people. He'd done it before. He, who'd vowed to protect all life, was a killer. A killing killer.

He buried himself in his work. As if tending to animals and plants would somehow even out his deeds. He hoped it would. One day. Maybe. Please, Yavanna, Green Lady, _please._

Marigold came to him two weeks later.

He was surprised, sure that what she'd seen would end their friendship. She was a hobbit after all. A gentle hobbit with a hobbit's gentleness and _goodness. _She sat silently and watched him work, an odd occurrence, usually she was full of chatter and gossip (worse than a squirrel and _definitely _worse than an owl). But today was silence. Eventually, however, she spoke.

"I killed one of them,"

It was a whisper, a confession, one killer to another. Radagast stopped grinding the herbs and knelt before her, taking her hands in his.

"You were defending your home," he told her, softly, kindly. She did not deserve the guilt churning in her eyes, settling in her heart like a poisonous spore.

"He had his back turned. He wasn't looking and it was _easy,_ Radagast. He just stood there and I stabbed him until he _stopped moving_."

"He would have done the same to you," Radagast assured her, but he could see her disbelief. Instead he drew her against him, holding her close and letting her cry, before handing her a mortar and pestle and the two worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

It was the animals that helped her move past her actions. She had half expected them to avoid her now, but it was not the case. The birds stole bits of her hair for nests, the dog waited expectantly for a thrown stick and the mice loved the treat of cheese. They saw her as she always was, until the blood she imagined till staining her hands was slowly washed away with every lick and every brush of fur.

The final piece of healing had nothing to do with animals or Radagast however.

Instead it had everything to do with one Tobold Chubb.

~{+*+}~

Arathorn arrived in the middle of August.

Berylla had begun to feel it, the urge to turn her feet back towards home, but it was with the arrival of Arathorn that her decision was made. She would leave Rivendell within the week. The harvest would begin soon, and every hand would be needed to gather all the crops before the first frosts began to fall. And when it did…well. She could not allow Bilbo to go through Winter alone.

When she told Lord Elrond of her decision he did not appear surprised but did tell her that whenever she travelled she would always be welcome in his house. He did however, have one question for her.

"Where will you go next?" He asked.

Sitting behind his carved desk his eyes were focused solely on her. She thought, sometimes, that his eyes were too old for his face and that they had seen too much. Then the thought would vanish as he would smile and his eyes would light up, it was then that he seemed a young man again, instead of the impossibly old being hiding behind the youthful visage.

This was not one of those times.

Berylla always struggled to meet his gaze when he looked like that, probably because the very young are always terrible at meeting the stern, old eyes. Instead she looked out at the valley, the deep ravine and swift river being bathed the light of the cooling day. She wondered where that river emptied, what lands it cut through and what people it sustained. To her, it was an opening, an invitation, to see more, to do more, to learn more, and all she would have to do would be to follow the river bed.

On foot of course.

She may be able to swim now but such a thing would be no excuse to go _boating_.

So she looked over at that valley, that tiny part of a much larger world, and answered with the truth.

"Home…and then…I don't know."

And so preparations were made. Food was laid aside for them, packs were put together, taken apart, mended and then put together once again. Berylla did this three times before Arathorn caught her and told her off for stalling. She protested, of course she did, but he wasn't entirely wrong. As much she wanted to go home to the Shire and her brother, a part of her would miss the peace of the Hidden Valley.

She definitely wouldn't be getting it on the road.

When asked later, she would say that she was _not_ consulted, it was _not her idea_ and the entire thing was so _ludicrous_ that she wondered if all Elves were somehow part Brandybuck. Tooks, while they may have been the more adventurous were clearly more sensible, obviously, as _she_ was a Took and _absolutely did not condone this at all. _

When she saddled up Sweetfoot for the journey home, she was joined by Arathorn who was much happier to be riding, something about finally being able to get places quicker without being hindered the queer sensibilities of hobbits. She ignored him. However much more difficult to ignore were the three elves that would be joining them. They're excuse, if they were asked (they weren't but they offered it anyway), was that that they were refusing to let their student get out of practise, and that a trip into the Wild was just what she needed to get a real sense of where she was in her education.

She would never admit to being grateful for their company, the larger group making for a far louder and jovial journey, and would always tell them the exact opposite, if only the maintain at least the illusion of caring about whether or not she was consulted. Great-Grandmother Baggins, the one with the lemon cakes and not the one with the extraordinary pipe smoke-ring blowing skills, would be proud of her for the pretence. The other Great-Grandmother Baggins, who before marriage was a Grubb, was much more blunt in character, and would probably wonder why she was even bothering.

There were of course times when it wasn't a pretence at all. Like the time they put a frog in her bedroll. And when they hid her handkerchief. And when they splashed mud on her travelling skirt, which she knows is meant for that sort of thing but really is it necessary to get it dirtier than it needs to be? She retaliated of course, little things like a small stone hidden in fabric, or twigs carefully arranged in hair. The last, it was admitted, was a marvel. The elves had not realised just how quiet a Hobbit could be, despite how sneaky Belladonna was, and were amazed that she had managed to stick that many twigs in their hair without either Twin waking. When Glorfindel returned to Rivendell the story had only grown in the retelling, and for years the twins were asked just how exactly a single hobbit tween managed to put three-quarters of a tree and an entire family of squirrels in their hair.

Thankfully for Arathorn's sanity the journey was far quicker on horse-back, and the quartet reached Bree after two weeks of travelling. They stopped off at the Prancing Pony for the night, Berylla immensely glad for the chance to wash before reaching the Shire. She had already run off into the unknown, there was no need to add to it by returning looking like a runaway faunt on bath day. Fishing out her bright yellow dress, the one Arathorn had been so against right at the beginning of Spring, Berylla got changed and went down to supper. They would only have a few days left together now, and she planned on enjoying every minute of it.

Except the dawn time sword lessons.

She could live with less of those.

~{+*+}~

When she first told him of Tobold Chubb, Radagast was barely paying attention. He had days like that, when one thought (in this case the differences in stick insects) occupied his entire mind. The second time they were eating lunch. Soon, and he could never pin point when, this _Tobold Chubb_, was a large part of her conversation. And there was something in her voice when she said her name, something unfamiliar to him but unmistakable.

His little Marigold was _in love_.

Ridiculous. She was far too long.

But he looked again and there she was. No longer a fauntling and no longer a tween. She was thirty-five, an adult by Hobbit reckoning, and had killed a man. No. Not a child. (But she _was_, by wizard reckoning she was an infant! A _foetus!_ Surely it was too soon for her to move on into the world. Too soon, much too soon.)

She was in love and he was sure would be marrying and having children and living and _dying_ and he _did not want it._

Sometimes he cursed his longevity. Olórin and Curumo may believe it a blessing, a chance to learn and to meet new beings and to meddle (always with the meddling) but Radagast could never agree. As close as he was, and is, to the rhythm and beat of the Earth he keenly felt the unnaturalness inherent in his immortality. The elves, for all the myths and rubbish about them being impervious to death, were closer to nature than he was being Sung into existence by Eru Ilúvatar. Not him. No song for the wizards.

But Marigold.

He blinked.

She was getting married.

There was a dress, a flowery dress with a veil and a crown of flowers and _it was happening_ (too soon, too soon).

It hurt him as he breathed, that panic that once more he would have to watch a friend die, but he breathed and breathed again. This is his life, this is his nature, to outlive everyone and everything he cares about. But this was her happy day (the happiest) and he was her friend.

Stooping, he picked two flowers and twined them together with his magic. He commanded them to defy their natures as flowers, to become harder than diamonds and to never wither or fade. Then he presented it to the glowing bride, and it stayed on her hand for the rest of Marigold's life. (He never made such an object again).

Marigold died the ripe Hobbit age of hundred and two (still a _child_) and the field where she was laid to rest became lost to time.

But the story was that a strange old man would visit it sometimes, that field that was constantly in bloom.

~{+*+}~

The Shire, when she finally saw it, was in the first thrall of Autumn.

The lush green hills, made ever brighter by the many flowers and trees that spotted the landscape was slowly turning softer. The flowers were retreating back into the earth and the leaves were losing their lush shine. Instead they were turning to the hues of autumn, warm reds, bright gold and burnt oranges. They were like sparkling jewels shining through bands of emerald.

None of that particularly mattered to her though.

Once Hobbiton was in sight she found that she forgot all else. Abandoning her companions (Arathorn knew the way, they'd be fine), Berylla urged Sweetfoot into a quick trot down the quiet lanes and up to The Hill with its round green door.

Bilbo, knowing that his sister would return for the Harvest Season, if not knowing quite when, had kept a weather eye out for any travellers the past weeks and so had spotted Berylla and her group as they moved through the market place. He waited for her outside the house, a wide grin making his cheeks ache.

When she saw him she barely registered leaving Sweetfoot by the gate and instead threw herself at Bilbo, hugging him close for the first time in months.

It would occur to her later, much, much later after several rounds of half pints, a great deal of food and every embarrassing story her family could remember, that it had been the people she had missed, not the place. Home was there in Donnamirra's fussing and Hildribrands scent of pipe-smoke and bacon.

Home was there in the steadiness of Bilbo's presence and the knowledge that _no matter wha_t, her twin would always be there to welcome her back, standing at the gate with the round green door.

* * *

><p><strong>Elvish<strong>

_Mae g'ovannen, Lindir! Gwannas lû and_ Well met, Lindir! It has been too long.

_I naw nîn ben naw gîn _I agree

_Iston i níveg_ I know your face

_Man le? _Who are you?

_Gi nathlam hi, perian _You are welcome here, Hobbit

_La fael _Thank you

_Im _I am

**Hobbitish**

_Is féidir le do ghairdín bhláth dheartháir riamh gile _May your garden bloom ever brighter brother.

_Fan sábháilte_ Stay Safe

_Yavanna a choimeád sábháilte agat , Vana choinneáil do fréamhacha láidir agus Oromë do shúile gear_ Yavanna keep you safe, Vána keep your roots strong and Oromë your eyes sharp

_Choinneáil ar ár dteanga sábháilte _Keep our language safe.

(I'm using the Irish language for Hobbitish)

* * *

><p>Who knows? Maybe the next chapter will be shorter?<p>

Much hugs,

Lizzie Hopscotch


	5. Chapter 5

**I suck. So much. Sorry about the delay folks, I'll try and do better next time.**

* * *

><p>For Holman Greenhand, the day began when the sun started the peek over the horizon. He would get out of the bed shared by his wife and get dressed before kissing his wife gently on her forehead. Laura Chubb, his wife of fourteen years, would merely grunt and roll over, spreading out over the warmth he'd left behind. He would then head out into the garden surrounding his home.<p>

Like a lot of the less wealthy hobbits, the home of the Greenhands was not built into the hill. Instead they lived in a house made of wood and stone that had stood for so long it had become part of the landscape. Climbing vines and flowers held fast to the stonework, covering the roof with a carpet of greenery. But the house itself was not that remarkable. The climbing plants and green roofs were common with Hobbits who were not under-hill, but what was decidedly uncommon about the Greenhands was that their garden was the best in all the Shire.

It was not remarked on for its size (medium) or its shape (a circle surrounding the house, already the shape was a bit wobbly in places) but for the fact that in that most remarkable garden, every plant lived.

And not just lived but _thrived_.

Holman spent the early hours of the sun rising caring for the entire garden, from de-weeding the vegetable patch to pruning to petunias to changing pots to carefully checking the leaves of the most delicate plants. He stopped only when Laura called to him that breakfast was ready and even then he would stop on his way to the door, making sure he had not overlooked the small flowers of blue toadflax that lined the path from the door to the gate. The hanging pots, swinging gently in the morning breeze from above the door, were not to be touched by him. They were Laura's pet projects, and if they didn't flourish as much as the garden then that was fine with her. They were her pots after all, and she gave them all the love she could.

After breakfast it was time to head up to Bag End. Holman had worked for the Bagginses since Bungo started building Bag End. It was to Holman that the love struck Hobbit had gone to for advice on the best way to set up the garden and it was to Holman that the care of that garden was entrusted. Except recently where young Mister Bilbo had started to take a keen interest in the growing of tomatoes. Admittedly his success this year was small but Holman could see that the young lad would grow into a decent tomato grower given enough time and guidance.

With a smile and a whistle the simple and cheerful hobbit made his way up the Hill. The first indication he had that something was wrong was the sound of hooves coming towards him. The second was the sight of a pony abandoned by the gate. The third was the appearance of three _elves._ Surrounded by all this wrongness brought about by Big Folk was the sight of something utterly right, and that was Berylla being home again.

Stopping by the gate Holman watched with a sense of satisfaction as Berylla refused to let go of her brother, even as the elves started to laugh. One of the brunettes spotted him by the gate and turned with a bow.

"Good morning, Master Hobbit,"

"Good morning, sirs," Holman replied.

"Morning, Holman!" called Bilbo. "Please, come in and meet everyone! Or at the very least be here while I myself am introduced," Berylla hit his arm in response to the light teasing, but it had the effect of getting Berylla to let her twin go.

"Ahem, ah, sorry," Berylla blushed and smiled at Holman, "It's good to see you,"

"And you too Miss Berylla, welcome home,"

"Thank you. Bilbo, Holman, this is Elladan, Elrohir and Glorfindel."

"It's nice to meet you," the blonde elf, Glorfindel, Holman corrected himself, said. Behind Berylla, Bilbo choked.

Glancing over at her brother with a frown, Berylla patted his back in an attempt to help. With her attention otherwise occupied she didn't see Elladan and Elrohir shoot wicked grins in Glorfindel's direction. Although which one was which Holman couldn't have told you.

"Berylla!"

"Aunt Donnamirra! Uncle Hildibrand!"

More hugs and exclamations of happiness later, Donnamirra managed to shoo everyone inside except Holman. He, despite the invitation, was adamant that his place was with the garden. Hildibrand left a mug of tea for him on the sill in the kitchen however, which vanished with the sound of the gardening sheers and reappeared hours later when conversation had wound down. While Holman may have one of the most steadfast and sensible hobbits, even he was susceptible to a good story.

Once everyone was settled in at the kitchen table, tea and biscuits piled high, the questions began. Although Berylla had tried to send letters regularly there were still things they missed, not to mention the fact that she had made some _terrible_ friends who seemed to delight in telling her family every embarrassing story they could think of.

Like the time she accidentally swore in Sindarin in front of _everyone_.

Or when she spilled tea on Lord Elrond.

Or the many, many, many times she fell off Sweetfoot.

Or when she nearly shot Erestor.

Bilbo of course returned in kind to such stories, telling them embarrassing stories from her childhood. Donnamirra and Hildibrand helped.

Glorfindel was telling a story about Berylla's first clumsy attempts with a sword when Elladan interrupted.

"You would think that evading a hobbit would be easy for someone who killed a balrog!"

Berylla choked on her tea.

Elrohir hit Elladan.

Glorfindel just looked uncomfortable.

"You did what?" She asked her friend.

"You didn't know?" Bilbo asked his sister.

"I didn't want her to," Glorfindel confessed. "You had no idea when we met and your…candour was refreshing. Usually when I meet someone for the first time they're intimidated and that never goes well for making friends. So I asked the others to just not tell you."

Berylla looked at her friend and smiled.

"You were rude first,"

Glorfindel laughed.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of food and stories and visitors, as the hobbits of Hobbiton became aware that the errant Baggins daughter had returned. Many were just passing through, wishing her well and taking a biscuit. Others were a bit more determined to stay, asking questions of everyone. The Elves accepts it with good grace, although as the day wore on they tired not that anyone but those who knew them would be able to tell.

Berylla insisted that they stay the night, and if any of the elves were uncomfortable in the hobbit-sized bedrooms none of them said anything.

They had to leave the next morning. They left with packs full of goodies and promises from Berylla and Bilbo both to visit them.

~{+*+}~

Belladonna Took was the ninth child and eldest daughter of Gerontius Took. As such she was in a unique position in regards to her brothers. She wasn't quite one of the boys, and yet they had no frame of reference in how to treat her as a girl. As such they would tug her braids and tease her without mercy, but most of all they liked to tell tales of the Old Forest, and watch her eyes go wide with fright.

Now there was no malice in their actions, after all Isengrim had done the same to Isumbras and Hildifons and Isembard. So why wouldn't he treat Belladonna the same. The story, as it went, was that little hobbits who wondered into the Old Forest never came out, taken by the wights that live there or eaten by hobgoblins. It was a story that had kept many a small hobbit (and not a few adult ones) out of the Forest.

It was also a story that set the imagination alight with ideas, some of them good, most of them bad.

For Belladonna, after a particularly trying day when her brothers had tripped her and she'd fallen into a mud puddle. She'd had to go home to her mother in ruined skirts and tears in her eyes. Isumbras had laughed and wondered why she had to be such a _girl_ about it.

She would show them. She was better and braver than all of them.

And she knew just how to prove it.

~{+*+}~

Berylla didn't have the time to miss her Elf friends. With the turning of the leaves the work in the fields picked up, the Baggins Twins were up at dawn and in bed when the moon came up. This lasted for two months, from September to October. Donnamirra and Hildibrand worked with them as well, bringing food and drink to the younger hobbits working in the fields. Anyone who wasn't working on preserves or drying meats or pickling vegetable, preparing for a burning field or building barrels for new stills, they were out in force in the fields. Even the littlest faunts were out there holding as much as they could carry and running it to the food stores. Everyone remembered the chill of the year before and the hunger as the stores ran low.

When the last of the crops had been gathered and the fields were left empty, it was then that the celebrations began. It is known that all hobbits love parties, but there are two that are the most important to them. One happens at the beginning of May, they celebrate the spring and the planting and coming of new life into the world. The second happens at the end of October when the harvest is finished and only the most stubborn of leaves hold on to the trees. They would show off the largest vegetables, the best preserves and dance and dance and dance until the cold just didn't exist.

Last year had been a fabulous celebration, Old Tom had broken out his best stills, ones that had been laid down by his father's father. The elder male hobbits had challenged the younger male hobbits to a drinking game, and that was the end of it. Bilbo and Berylla had helped their father stagger home, while Bella cackled behind them.

The winner of the drinking game had been Adamanta Took.

After that the frost had set in with a vengeance. Bilbo and Berylla had gotten their first taste of Old Tom's stills a month after the party, the warmth of it settling in their stomachs, but was gone all too soon. They only drank it the once, when the wolves came it was used to wash out wounds and numb hurts.

So the harvest party this year was prepared for with an air of sadness, as hobbits quietly laid out tables and raised banners, setting out lanterns and candles and party games. But quickly, as with the nature of hobbits, when one started humming, others started singing, and the party preparation began in earnest.

Berylla and Bilbo wore their best clothes for the occasion. Bilbo in soft brown trousers and a light green shirt, while Berylla wore a bright pink dress of alternating shades and matching ribbons in her hair. Bright colours were a must, they decided. This was a time of celebration and they were going to celebrate, dammit!

Other hobbits had the same idea.

The lights in the Party Tree shone brightly down on the hobbits dancing below. They whirled around in flashes of blue and orange and yellow and green and purple and red and pink. They were bright and light with laughter and good cheer. Music sounded out throughout the Shire, the whistling flutes of Hobbiton meeting with those from Buckland and Tookborough, all the way to Michel Delving. It was a song they played in thankfulness to the Valar and in defiance to the White Wolves of Winter.

If they weren't dancing they were eating and if they weren't eating then they singing and if they weren't singing they were laughing.

Somehow Berylla and Bilbo found themselves surrounded by fauntlings.

"What happened next, Miss Berylla? Did Aragost rescue her?" asked a Chubb girl.

"Well, it didn't quite happen like that," Berylla replied.

"Then what?" said the Hornblower boy.

"He was late." Bilbo took up the story. "He was on his way you see, but he was far too late! Ioreth was home with her family, with the dastardly villain getting closer and closer." He lowered his voice and drew the children in, until every child was sat in stunned silence as the twins weaved the tale of an evil man and the hero eventually winning his love.

"And then! With a heave and a shove, Ioreth's father hurled him from the house and the rotten scoundrel was never seen in those parts again!"

Cheering fauntlings were then rounded up by their parents, who were then evaded by the scamps playing at being Aragost and Ioreth. If Arathorn could see them he'd be in stitches.

Having lost their audience, Berylla dragged Bilbo into a reel until the two were spinning with the rest. The two staggered away from the dancing some time later, Berylla to sit down with the Tooks and Bilbo towards a keg with the promise to bring back a half-pint for his sister.

Amidst the rambunctious laughter of her mother's family, Berylla didn't notice the quiet presence of her grandfather settling next to her until his wizened hand touched her arm.

"Grandfather!" Berylla drew the Old Took into her arms, her grandfather returning the embrace.

"Hello my dear, are you enjoying yourself?"

"Of course, I love these parties," Berylla smiled at him.

"And your journey to the Elves, was it as you hoped?"

"It was, they were very kind and I learned much from them,"

"Your mother said the same the first time she returned from them,"

"She did?"

"She did. And she would also have been very proud of you, my dear Berylla, for stepping over the border on your own." He paused for a moment. "Of course she would also smack you on the head for it, especially since it was your first time out."

"My first time?" Berylla asked, her brows furrowed.

"Well, the daughter of Belladonna Took is hardly going to sit around now she's had a taste of the great wide world now is she?" A wink and he was gone, replaced by her brother and the slosh of beer.

"Berylla? What is it?" Bilbo asked, noting her stunned face.

"Nothing, Bilbo. It's nothing."

~{+*+}~

She wondered into the Old Forest the first time on a Tuesday morning. The sun shone brightly through the tree tops, blanketing the forest carpet with light. She threw leaves in the air and spun as they fell. Laughing she skipped deeper into the forest, following the narrowing path through the trees. It was then that she heard the singing.

_Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow;_

_Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow._

This was followed by Tom himself rounding the trees and dancing a jig onto the path. As he said his boots were in fact yellow and his jacket blue, but despite the gaudy colours they were clearly well made.

"Why, hello there!" He called out to her, waving enthusiastically.

"Hello!" Belladonna called back, returning his gesture with a wide smile. She walked towards him, but he was suddenly there in front of her.

"You're a hobbit!" He exclaimed. Belladonna got the feeling that he exclaimed a lot going by his clothing.

"Yes, I'm Belladonna Took. Nice to meet you Mr…?"

"Bombadil! Tom Bombadil, at your service, Miss Took!" He shook her hand vigourously.

"It's a pleasure!"

Her brothers were never going to believe this.

The two sat down by the road and out of his pack Tom Bombadil pulled out an entire tea set, complete with biscuits.

Once the tea was poured and at least two biscuits consumed, Tom launched into an extraordinary tale of walking trees and their wives that tended the land. He wove images of lands far far away where terrible tragedy struck, and the wives vanished without a trace.

Belladonna listened avidly, even as he walked her to the edge of the forest, but only when the treeline was behind her did she remember a tall tale told by Hildifons about the Old Forest and the trees that would move there.

To Belladonna's mind that could only mean one thing.

The Entwives were in the Old Forest.

~{+*+}~

Two days after the party the news was broken.

Donnamirra and Hildibrand were leaving Bag End. They told the twins they'd made the decision when Berylla returned from Rivendell but had waited until the party to let them know. They felt the twins were near enough their majority that they could manage on their own now. Berylla wondered about this, it would be another ten years until they would be considered adults. It didn't matter though. They were leaving, and it was now up to Bilbo and Berylla to manage Bag End.

For Bilbo this meant he had to leave the fields and instead deal with other matters like rent collection and the movement of merchant caravans. He found he didn't mind it too much, he got to meet all his neighbours and make sure they were alright, and the merchants had maps of far off places that he would often dream about.

Berylla was less pleased.

As lady of the house she was now responsible for the domestic side of Bag End. This, as you may have guessed, included the cleaning and cooking (which Bilbo was happy to help with) but also with _hosting_. Berylla was not good at hosting.

For one thing it meant that every time some gossipy hobbit, for example, shall we say, Lobelia Bracegirdle, came calling she was to sit and engage with conversation. The first few times it was quite enjoyable, especially when Holman's wife Daisy came round with her three faunts. That always turned into a bit of a party with pastries and tea and a good deal of running about.

Others sat ramrod straight in chairs designed for comfort and waited for a mistake to titter about to their friends.

And there were a few.

There were rules to hosting, rules that Berylla had never had the need, nor the inclination, to learn. Like the fact that tea cups go on the rights and plates on the left. Or that the guest must drink first and that a stirring spoon must not touch the sides of the cup and once used be placed at a precise angle on the saucer. And then there was how to fold the napkin and how to remove the napkin and then the fussing on how they took their tea and how far to fill the cup and how much to leave in the cup when drinking. The rules went on forever.

One morning she encountered Lobelia Bracegirdle in the market. According to Lobelia the rules of hosting were ever so easy, and that Berylla could not master them was clearly a sign that she had been corrupted immeasurably by her trip out of the Shire. She would sneer at Berylla in the street and made every snide comment she could.

On this morning, Lobelia invited herself over for tea.

"I would so love to hear more of your charming stories," Lobelia smiled, showing a bit too much teeth.

"Oh Lobelia, I would love to have you over, unfortunately I'm terribly busy today, and I won't be in the house. You will simply have to come another time."

"But today is the easiest for me, come now what could possibly be so important?"

"Anything and everything. Quite frankly I would rather serve tea to an Orc than sit through your sniping this afternoon."

Except she didn't say this. Instead Berylla smiled and made nonsense sentences about tending to the garden with her brother and leaving to see some family in Tookland, perhaps even passing through Brandy Hall. Other eavesdropping hobbits nodded in approval, it was always good to visit ones family after all and wasn't Lobelia being frightfully rude by pushing the issue?

Berylla left the market with a full basket and victorious smile, absolutely thrilled with having found the perfect excuse for not having people constantly round for tea.

~{+*+}~

Entering the forest again was a bad idea. Not that Belladonna would ever admit it of course.

She had walked for the better part of day, and not a sign of the Entwives had she found. Instead she'd found a blackberry thicket, a rabbit warren and a small family of squirrels. As distracting as all these things were to the young hobbit, it was no wonder that she quickly became hopelessly lost.

"Well that's alright," she told herself over a mid-afternoon snack, "I'll use the sun to guide me."

She craned her neck and stared up at the trees, walking in ever increasing circles, looking for the tell-tale sparkle of light through the leaves. But she had ventured too far and for too long and the sun was no longer bright enough to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves.

A kernel of fear lodged in her gut, freezing her movements. Her brothers used to tell her these stories after all. Of the small hobbit girls who went into the woods and never came out again, whose ghosts would flit from tree to tree and entice others to follow them.

A brush of wind became a cold breath on her neck, a rustle of leaves the movements of ghosts. She breathed quickly, short pants of air as she fought through her panic.

She wouldn't get home.

She would never see her parents, her brothers _ever again_.

She was going to _die._

It was then that she heard it, a small squeaking, out of place with the sound of trees. It cut through her panic, a spark of something new, anything new, to focus all her attention on. A dart of light flew erratically through the trees, followed by tall figures shrouded in white mist.

There were indeed ghosts in the Old Forest, but they were far more dangerous than any spirit of a hobbit child could be.

~{+*+}~

One month after the harvest festival Winter arrived in full force, with a chilly wind and the hammering rain. The hobbits were prepared this time, food stores had been laid aside and plenty of kindling had been gathered. Some hobbits were even wintering in large family smials, keeping everyone as close as possible. The Greenhands knew they were welcome at any time in Bag End, but they had decided to stay in their own home for the time being.

When the first snow fell, Berylla was outside. It was only a small flurry, barely a dusting of white on the ground really, but still it sent her into a panic. She hammered on the door of the Greenhand residence at once, gibbering at Daisy about snow and demanding they all come to Bag End immediately. Daisy took her inside and gave her tea, settling her down some before Bilbo came and took her back to Bag End.

After that Bilbo made sure she knew all of his comings and goings. He recognised the look in her eyes from the spring when she holed herself away and refused to leave. That is not to say that he himself remained unaffected. Every day where he heard the running water of the streams and the ground remained free of snow was a relief to him. Even then though he could feel the cold nipping at his fingers and toes, the deep cold that made him scurry back close to the fire.

But his comings and goings had one unintended side effect.

It began with a simple sneeze.

"Bilbo? Are you alright?" Berylla asked, a cup of tea steaming in her outstretched hands.

"I'm fine, honestly," Bilbo answered, taking the tea gratefully. "It's just a sneeze."

He sneezed again.

The next thing he knew he was tucked in bed, smothered in blankets and an endless supply of tea beside him.

He didn't fight it, he didn't want to. For as long as he was in bed with a cold, minor as he knew it was, then Berylla would not leave Bag End. And so long as she didn't leave then nothing bad could happen to her. It meant that he wouldn't be alone.

It had been difficult, the months that she had been gone, but not impossible with his aunt and uncle waiting for him at home. It wasn't the same though. There was no Berylla walking beside him, his mother was not fighting imaginary foes with a broom and his father was not smoking his pipe in his study.

But the smial was not empty, not like it was then.

Now Berylla sat by his bed, and it was during this time that the idea was born. It was a tentative one, born from a night of sharing and laughter. It was quite simple. Berylla would tell her stories, and Biblo would write them down. They had done it before after all, books on basic herb lore and riddles. This would surely be no different.

Berylla rubbed her hands gently as she spoke with her brother, tracing the lines of her scars. Arwen had asked about them once, back in Rivendell. The elleth had noticed her rubbing them once, and so she had asked.

Berylla had refused to answer.

~{+*+}~

She ran pell-mell towards the flickering light, barrelling straight into the misty figure. It turned its frightful visage upon her, and she raised her bread knife in trembling hands. The fairy-light vanished through the trees and Belladonna took steps backwards.

The trees in this part of the forest were dark and twisted however, and they were not friends to hobbits. The roots shifted beneath her feet, and she fell in a flurry of skirts. She looked up and met the eyes of the wight, the endless pits of mist and darkness.

And then she collapsed.

When she woke her hands and feet were bound with rough rope, and propped up against what felt like an earthen wall. There was no light in this place, and she began to struggle against the bindings. Then a strange light began to fill the place.

"Hello?" she called quietly.

There was no answer, but the light burned brighter and brighter, seeming as though it was coming closer towards her. Frantically she looked around, trying to find some way out but all she saw were round walls of earth and stone.

_A cairn,_ she realised, a thrice-cursed _cairn_. Where dead kings of old were buried and, unable to pass on, had become trapped there.

The light came upon her, and the barrow-wight burned within – eyes wide and a gaping jaw, a crown of silver mist upon his brow.

~{+*+}~

The first book was made in the second week of March on a Friday.

Once Bilbo had recovered to his sister's specifications they had begun the task of writing out her travels, where she went who she met and what she learned. It was Bilbo who wrote the tales, Berylla's handwriting being what it was and her command over the written word was not as proficient as her brother's. Her gifts instead lay in her voice and drawing in her listeners that way.

They took it to Michel Delving when the paths were deemed safe to travel by the Bounders. The printing press there was rarely used, hobbits having little need for the mass production of literature, instead all news travelled by word of mouth and any books were hand written and passed on through families.

In fact the only reason Michel Delving even _had _a printing press was because sometimes merchants employed by the Baggins or Bracegirdle families would run out of their wares and made the trip into the Shire to replenish their stock. The Baggins twins paid for the use of it, and 10 bound copies were made.

The tales had been written out, copied, and altered a dozen times during the winter. Drawings were added and then taken away, small anecdotes decorated the margins of dozens of pages. These copies the two would keep for themselves, they were so similar to the ones they made as children after all.

Within the book was six tales passed on by Berylla, and three from Bilbo that he had picked up throughout the Shire. The drawings Bilbo would add later, the 10 copies made comprising only of the writings.

The last story was one Berylla had hesitated in adding, as it concerned their own mother, but when she saw (in the very first draft) what Bilbo had written underneath the title she knew it would be the best addition she could make.

_In memory of two wonderful Hobbits,_

_Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins._

~{+*+}~

When next she came to it was to the light of the sun. She was surrounded by soft blankets, and the cheerful whistle of the kettle pierced the air.

She sat up carefully, wary of her new surroundings, and placed her bare feet on the ground.

"Hello?" she called once again, this time in far more pleasant circumstances.

"Hello!" a light voice called back, quickly followed by a golden haired woman, and none other than Tom Bombadil.

"Mr Bombadil! However did I get here?" Belladonna gasped.

The woman guided her to the table, and into the chair.

"Now let's shelve such talk dear, until we have tea on the table and some scones in our bellies,"

"Quite right indeed!" Tom Bombadil agreed, taking the seat opposite Belladonna so that his wife Goldberry may sit between them.

Once introductions had been finished and the scones consumed, Tom began his tale of how he found young Belladonna.

"I was walking through the woods," he began. "When the most curious thing happened. A fairy, of all things, came flitting out the trees crying out about lost hobbits and mean, nasty barrow-wights. It was travelling rather quickly but I managed to catch it in my fishing net and get the whole story out of it in short order.

It was then I realised that the young hobbit lass I'd met not long ago," here he levelled a stare at Belladonna that made her squirm in her chair. "One that I remember telling _quite clearly_ that the Old Forest was dangerous, had found herself in a bit of bother. I headed to the barrow-downs, for the wights do all their killing there and no other place, and began my search. It was only when one of the downs lit up in an unearthly glow was I able to find you. I scared the wight off and carried you here, where you've been sleeping.

And that's it! The whole story!"

He concluded with a grin.

"But how long have I been gone?" Belladonna asked, the day had been ending when she encountered the fairy, and now the sun was shining once more!

"Well, you've been sleeping for at least a day," Goldberry said.

"A day! Oh no, my family must be frightfully worried!" Belladonna stood and made to leave, "It's not that I'm ungrateful, heavens no, I know I owe you my life Mr Bombadil, but I must return home,"

"I will accept no service, young Took, and you owe me nothing," Tom began. "Except to listen to this song before you run home,"

"Of course! Anything!"

It was then that Tom Bombadil began to sing something quite unlike anything she'd ever heard before. It was an eerie tune, and it sent a chill down her spine.

_"Cold be hand and heart and bone _

_and cold be sleep under stone _

_never more to wake on stony bed _

_never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead _

_In the black wind the stars shall die _

_and still be gold here let them lie _

_till the Dark Lord lifts his hand _

_over dead sea and withered land." _

—The dismal, tortured chant of a Barrow-wight. (TOLKIEN)

The song chased her the whole way home, and into the embrace of her worried parents. It stayed in her thoughts as she completed all her brother's chores as punishment and as she was confined in the smial for a month for good measure.

She never forgot the words, though the tune sometimes escaped her, and she never ventured far into the Old Forest again.

The song she eventually passed on to her children.

~{+*+}~

The month of May saw a change come to Bag End.

It happened after the Mayday celebration, and perhaps had the twins not been so busy with the planning they have noticed it sooner.

It began with a Chubb tween coming to Bag End and asking to borrow one of the printed books, saying that their little sister loved the stories. The two lent it willingly, and suddenly there were only nine.

After that it was a Proudfoot, a Bracegirdle and a fellow Baggins that asked for one, and soon there were only two copies left within Bag End.

Berylla and Bilbo didn't mind, they were made to be read after all, and so they continued on with their celebration planning. This was going to be a much better party than the one they attended in October.

Some days when it was all over they were approached by Togo Bracegirdle. Bilbo and he had locked heads before, being in the same business of trading with merchants.

"Togo!" Berylla greeted him at the door with a smile, "Come in, come in! What brings you here today?"

"Well, Miss Baggins, actually, it was this." And out of his pocket he drew out their little book of tales.

"Our book? How curious! You simply must have some tea." She poured out three cups, having heard Bilbo coming out of his study.

"Togo!"

"Bilbo!"

The two settled down to drink tea, both pointedly ignoring the book as they chatted about the comings and goings in the Shire. It simply would not do to discuss business until they were on their second cup of tea.

"Now," Bilbo began, the chink of the cup hitting the sauce loud in the suddenly loud kitchen. "Why has the book bought you to our door?"

"Well, I was wondering if you were thinking about making more of them."

"More? Why? There's plenty in the Shire, they keep getting passed on."

"But _only_ in the Shire. One of my merchants found one, I think you leant it to my eldest daughter? And he seemed to think it was a fabulous little book. Offered to buy it there and then. Of course I said no, telling him it wasn't mine, but it did make me think."

"I see, and you think the Big Folk are interested?"

"I don't see why they wouldn't be," Togo replied.

"Hmmm." Bilbo looked at Berylla, who nodded.

"Well, I doubt the printing press at Michel Delving could make as many as you are thinking of."

"Oh no, we would definitely have to go to Bree,"

"That would be nice," Berylla interjected. "Bree is simply lovely this time of year and the markets are full of wonderful things. I'm sure we could sell many books there."

"We could," Bilbo said slowly, "Make something of an adventure of it."


End file.
